


The Hole in My Mind

by RedHead537



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Other, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:44:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 32,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5845534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHead537/pseuds/RedHead537
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>-<br/>-<br/>"Do you have a safe place, Rick?"</p><p>I can't answer. My teeth are chattering. Are they breaking? I'm shivering. I shake my head no, my arms and fists clenching. What the hell’s happening to me? We're outside in the courtyard. It's at least 85 degrees and I'm fucking shivering. Why can't I talk? Do something, I think, get me out of this fucking body.<br/>-<br/>-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a rare occasion for Morty to be left alone in the house. Actually, he couldn't think of a time when it had _ever_ happened.

 

Beth and Jerry were away for the weekend for another attempt at a couple's retreat. Summer was picked up a few hours ago by a couple of girlfriends. Morty wasn't certain, but she had a bag with her when she left so he assumed she also wouldn't be back.

 

Rick had been gone two nights, going on the third. Morty wasn't exactly sure where he went, but Rick had muttered something about ' _clients_ ' and _'gone for a few days'_. Rick was Morty's best friend and he enjoyed his company, but the peace in the house was a welcome change.

 

He walked around the living room, then the kitchen, then out to the garage. All the while he was soaking up the sound of silence. No yelling, fighting, or explosions. Just calm.

 

Morty looked around the garage nervously. It wasn't his intention to invade Rick's privacy, he just held a genuine interest in the man's work. He was careful not to touch anything and only allowed his eyes to freely roam around the shelves filled with various alien objects.

 

But in one moment, something caught Morty’s eye near the bottom shelf.

 

It was quite unremarkable from an outside perspective. In-between the shelves was a black composition notebook wedged behind some boxes. Everything on the shelf belonged to Rick, so this item wouldn’t be the exception. What could possibly be the harm in touching a notebook?

 

Morty debated for another moment before carefully reaching around and plucking the black notebook from its corner. It looked plain enough. There was nothing on the front, but Morty found a sticker on the bottom right corner that read:

 

**_Helix Healing and Recovery_ **

**_San Diego, CA_ **

 

Still unsure of what he was holding, Morty flipped through the book quickly to realize that the script was handwritten. Morty had seen plenty of Rick's notes before, but they were typically composed of a lot of numbers, shapes, and single letters. So when Morty read the first line of the first page, his heart dropped to his toes.

 

**_The Hole in My Mind_ **

**_Ricardo Andres Sanchez_ **

**_California, 1982_ **

 

This was some kind of... journal?

 

Morty turned the page.

 

 

 

_September 19th, 1982_

 

_Amelia Jones of the Helix Healing Center, the director I assume by her intensely painful-looking high heels, is giving a lecture today on trauma theory. She draws a black hole on the white board. Great, I love the visuals... _

**_'This is a traumatic event'_ ** _she says pointing to the black hole. **'It's intrusive, unpredictable, creates a state of helpless-ness, and even disrupts homeostasis'**_

_Wow, big word, lady. Give yourself a fucking metal._

**_'Trauma effects everything_ ** _-' she drones on. '- **even one's balance. Many people who have been traumatized walk on the outsides of their shoes.'**_

_This makes me think of my mother and how pigeon-toed she was. Did something traumatize her? Was it the drugs? Is that what made her so violent?_

_I'm looking for some way to redeem the good mother and forgive the bad one._

_Still looking._

 

Morty is completely engrossed in the journal when he's disrupted by a loud rumbling. He recognizes it immediately as Rick's spaceship. It lands next to Morty with a metal thud. Like a coward, he shoves the notebook behind his back, then tucks it into his pants.

 

"Oh-oh, hey-hey Rick! G-G-Glad you're back!" Morty said with his typical stutter. That was the one advantage of being a nervous, awkward mess sometimes- when Morty really DID have something to hide, it was easy to write off.

 

Rick strolled up to the workbench, stretching his arms over his head, looking pleased with himself.

 

"Yeeeah, Morty it was-it was a good run. Wh-where's everyone else?" Rick asked as he walked past Morty into the kitchen. Morty kept his hands behind his back, attempting to further hide the notebook.

 

"Oh, th-they're all out tonight."

 

Rick looked at Morty with excitement, grabbing a soda from the fridge.

 

"Awwww shit, dawg! Ballfondlers Maaarathon! You-You game?" Rick asked with the enthusiasm of a 22 year old frat boy. Morty looked at him through new, concerning eyes. The biggest part of him wanted to say no, lie that he was too tired. He would be able to rip upstairs to dive deeper into this notebook. Deeper into the painful psyche of his Grandfather that he desperately wanted to understand, to see, to help. But seeing the smile on Rick's face was too rare to pass up. It would have to wait.

 

"Sure, R-Rick. Sounds great! L-Let me just go-go use the bathroom f-first." Morty pivoted towards the stairs as Rick followed him into the living room to set up the TV. Once upstairs, Morty quietly slipped into his room and removed the notebook from his pants. He tucked it underneath his mattress, along with a few other private items. It wasn't the most original spot, but he was fine with that.

 

After changing into more comfortable clothes, Morty made his way downstairs next to Rick on the couch. Rick grinned at him while eating vanilla wafers, producing generic woots and yells to convey his excitement.

 

Morty always enjoyed time with Rick, however he had a feeling this Ballfondlers marathon would be particularly lengthy.

 

 

 

One passed out Rick and a few hours later, Morty stood up to turn off the TV. Rick ended up taking up the entire couch during the movie, so Morty had moved to the chair to let him enjoy full comfort. He turned off the living room lamp, but return with a red cotton blanket from the hall closet a second later. He carefully laid it out over Rick's slumbering form while he snored softly. He checked to make sure all of the doors in the house were locked before making his way upstairs.

 

Once in his room, Morty shut the door quickly and practically dove onto his bed. He desperately clawed underneath the bed until he felt the smooth material of the notebook graze his fingers. Morty held it carefully in his hands as he admired it again before opening it.

 

 _'Wow... This feels a bit wrong, but... I want to know more about Rick. I… **need** to know more_.'

 

Morty had already squashed any feelings of guilty by declaring to himself he would use any information gathered to help his grandfather. It wasn't a secret that Rick wasn't the most stable individual. This notebook could possibly give Morty an edge on understand _why_ Rick is the way Rick is. He opened carefully to continue on the first page that was interrupted.

 

 

 

_Still looking._

_Taking notes helps me avoid eye contact._

_" **In order to preserve homeostasis, we must be able to screen out certain stimuli**."_

_She draws an arching dotted line over the black hole. " **People who have been chronically traumatized are unable to screen out certain noises, smells, movements, and sights. The stimulus barrier has holes.** " She draws smaller arches over the spaces, between the lines. " **These are the defenses of people with trauma. People will do almost anything to avoid the hole in their minds. You need to find a safe place before you can look into the hole**."_

_After therapy, I rush back to my room to check all the soles of my shoes. If anything, my shoes are worn down from the inside, especially the big toe._

_Maybe I don't belong here._

_R.S._

_September 29th, 1982_

_My favorite time is art therapy. Mostly because I don't have to fucking talk to anyone. All we do is talk here. With Ms. Gathers, we use oils, crayons, and charcoal, with huge slabs of paper._

_A blank sheet of paper is comforting, in a strange way._

_" **The idea of art therapy** -" Gathers explains, "- **is to draw what you can't talk about yet. The words will follow."**_

_My first drawing is of a black hole. A voice seemed far away._

_" **Do you have a safe place, Rick**?"_

_I can't answer. My teeth are chattering. Are they breaking? I'm shivering. I shake my head no, my arms and fists clenching. What the hell’s happening to me? We're outside in the courtyard. It's at least 85 degrees and I'm fucking shivering. Why can't I talk? Do something, I think, get me out of this fucking body. _

_" **I'm going to count to five**." a man named Greg says to me. " **And when I get to one, I want you to go to your safe place.** "_

_Safe place? What the fuck was he talking about? I thought this was supposed to be a safe place, with all of the locked doors and high brick walls?_

_" **Five** -"_

_Four, three, two, one- fuck off. I want to leave, but my teeth won't stop chattering. I'm not sure what's worse- to feel this fucking out of control and be watching from the inside, or to disappear completely. But I can't seem to leave my body no matter how hard I try._

_" **Four, I want you to start breathing deeply** -"_

_I take a breath, let it out._

_" **Three, that's good, take another breath** -"_

_My chatter begins to slow_

_" **Two, you're almost there** -"_

_I open my mouth, inhale._

_" **One. You're safe, Rick**."_

_I exhale, close my mouth, and begin breathing through my nose._

_Is this what it means to be safe?_

_" **I'm going to teach you to count** ," Greg says._

_R.S._

 

 

Morty closes the notebook, overwhelmed. The tears started coming somewhere in the middle of the second passage. It took all of Morty's willpower not to march straight down to the couch, wake Rick up and hold him.

 

Instead, Morty turned the page to continue his journey into the dark pit of Rick's mind.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -  
> -  
> "Violators cannot live with the truth: Survivors cannot live without it."  
> -  
> -

_October 15th, 1982_

_Today is my birthday. I've spent 43 days in this shitty place. Marie comes to see me. She hasn't been around much. Her exhaustion is apparent by her growing belly and short patience. I'm starting to resent her. Maybe even hate her._

 

_" **You need help, Rick. You need to try to fix this before the baby comes. I can't take it anymore**."_

_Marie has always had this need to try and 'fix me', whatever the fuck that means. She's embarrassed to be seen with me at the Center, I can tell._

_She thinks, **'God, I'm carrying this unstable, crazy bastard’s child, what a piece of shit**.'_

_Sitting in the courtyard across the picnic table from her, she feels like a total stranger. The bitch is keeping me stranded in this place, dangling the future of my only child in front of me for leverage._

_The episodes were worse during the night. I would often wake up screaming for Elizabeth, only to be confused to see Marie next to me instead._

_Red hair instead of blonde._

_" **Riiick... go back to sleep. You know your sister's gone."** she would groan with more irritation than concern. That’s when the drinking started to get a bit worse. Blacking out was the only thing keeping me asleep most nights._

_I drove up to Elizabeth’s grave the day before I checked in._

_After almost eight years I still can’t think of anything to say other than 'fuck you' and 'why?'_

_I wish I could just say goodbye._

_R.S._

 

 

_October 17th, 1982_

_"Breaking Silence" is my hardest group. I haven't been able to stay all the way through so far. Maybe today._

_Ms. Judy asks for a volunteer to read the statement of purpose. I'm feeling brave today, so I raise my hand. I stand up, clear my throat. Everyone is looking at the floor._

_" **To talk about incest** ," I say " **the violation of a child's innocence by a parent or guardian through any unwanted touch, vaginal, anal, oral-** " I stop, feeling a catch in my throat. I was thinking about the size of my mouth, how it was barely big enough to fit three fingers. _

_I'm such a fucking coward._

_" **I can't do this."** I say, handing the paper back to the group leader. She nods and hands the paper off to a patient named Kim._

_I'm not here anymore. I'm in front of my workbench. I can see my tools, the cool metal, the microscope, the computer._

_I hear voices that are far, far away._

_" **Rick? Rick, are you still with us**?" I hear Ms. Judy's voice say._

_Please don't call me back. I want to stay here. I don't want to be there, I'm so close to a breakthrough on this cell oxidation._

_" **I think it's important you join us again, Rick** -"_

_You know I can't talk. I start to feel the chattering._

_" **Rick, you don't have to talk, but give me a signal that you can hear me.** "_

_I nod my head in a jerky motion, hoping it came across._

_" **Good, Rick. Stay with us**." I hear her move to the whiteboard._

_" **Today, we're going to talk about the cost of keeping silent** -" I hear the squeak of the marker._

_I think about Elizabeth. She paid the ultimate price for her silence. A few years after her overdose, I found her journal in her lab. It was personal, and she didn't know if what had happened to her was real or not. She wrote in horrific detail the disgusting fucking things mother made her do. I had also been unsure of the validity of those memories throughout my life. When something like that happens so young, you wonder if your mind was just playing tricks on you._

_" **Cost of keeping silent: suicidal feelings** -" check. "- **self-mutilation** ," check. "- **substance abuse** ," double check. "- **eating disorders, and sexual promiscuity**." Check, aaand check. _

_Why didn't I fucking speak up? I feel guilty knowing that I'm certain in the reality of what happened, but she never got that. She drowned in her own vomit, wondering if her demons were in her mind, or wearing a deep purple dress._

_I open my eyes to look up at the board. Death is not on there. It bothers me._

_R.S._

 

_October 22nd, 1982_

_I've recovered another memory._

_It hit me while I was sitting in art therapy, continuing work on my black hole. Maybe that's why it happened- I'm looking too deeply._

_It scares the shit out of me._

_I'm six years old, running through the hallway of an office building._

_My hands are sticky._

_I've wet my pants._

_I'm crying._

_I see Elizabeth at the end of the hall laughing at me, unknowing. " **Baby, baby, baby** ," she says._

_I crumble into a ball in front of a bathroom door, crying harder. Mr. Locke, the office janitor walks by and sees me. His skin is soft and black, and he has kind brown eyes._

_He crouches in front of me, wiping my tears with a handkerchief. He takes my hand and leads me into the bathroom. He lifts me up onto the sink to wash my hands, hard. All the while he's shaking his head saying 'there, there' over and over._

_When he's finished, he sets me down on the floor and takes my hands into his large ones, looking right into my eyes._

_" **Grown-ups shouldn't do this to little boys**."_

_At the time, I didn't understand. But when I looked at my hands in his, I wished they were black too._

_R.S._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -  
> -  
> “When you feel caught in the web of childhood abuse, find words to describe it. Write them. Say them. Express them. In safe places, with safe people.”  
> -  
> -


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -  
> -  
> "Mother is God in the eyes of a child."  
> -  
> -

It’s 2:30 in the morning and Morty is heaving in the toilet upstairs. His body feels blistering hot, sweat dripping down his neck. His arms are trembling. He wretches again, the putrid smell filling the bathroom, burning his nose hairs. Morty tries to take deep breathes to bring himself back.

 

It was all just… too much. Morty was overwhelmed. He thought he had mentally prepared himself enough throughout the years of knowing Rick to understand what his past may hold. Morty always pictured the awful, terrible things that Rick had probably done. He never once considered that someone may have taken advantage of him first. And Rick had a sister?

 

_Does Mom even know about her?_

Another heave. Morty’s spitting up bile now. His stomach starts to ache as it complains that there are no more contents for him to empty. He wipes his mouth with a nearby towel and closes the toilet seat cover to sit on it.

 

All of it seemed so impossible. His grandfather was confident, proud, strong, clever- his best friend. The image of someone taking advantage of him… as child?

 

It destroyed Morty, and shook him to his very core. He had heard about these kinds of things happening in school or on the news, but he never really paid them any mind.

 

 _Stay away from strangers_ ,  they preach.

 

_What about when it’s your own family?_

 

Morty gags again, tears flowing freely.

 

He leaves the bathroom and peeks downstairs around the corner to see Rick, still peacefully sleeping. Morty stands in the doorway, watching the old man’s chest fall up and down, slowly. The teen began rocking himself slightly while watching the gentle heaves of Rick’s body under the red blanket.

_‘He’s here, and he’s ok. He’s here, and he’s ok…’_ Morty begins chanting in his head _._

After a few more minutes of watching over Rick, Morty crept back towards his room.

The kid knew it would be painful, but he knew he needed to keep going. No one should have to live with these secrets. The first few pages alone were tearing Morty apart. What must it be like to be the one who actually lived the nightmare?

 

Morty didn’t want Rick to carry the burden alone anymore.

 

Morty made his way back to his room, carefully closing the door. He turned around to stare at the notebook on his sheets. He released a shaky sigh and walked towards his bed. Sitting crossed legged, back against the wall, Morty continued.

 

_October 24 th, 1982_

_I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, washing my face. I just threw up for the seventh time this week. Once a day helps keep the wicked thoughts away. More than once a day might be pushing it. My teeth feel weak, always aching. I’ve lost twelve pounds in two weeks. If I lose anymore, those assholes are going to take away my ‘privileges’._

_Today I’m supposed to go to some stupid ass group called “Eating Issues”._

_I tell them it’s bullshit, I don’t have eating issues. I eat all the time. I just can’t keep it down._

_My shrink Dr. Boxill pairs me up with a blind boy named Andy. I feel kind of sorry for the fucker. We play checkers. I have to help him a lot .I feel guilty and let him win._

_He was apparently raped by an unknown attacker when he was ten._

_I stopped feeling bad for him after that._

_Andy can open and close his eyes, but no matter what happens, he will never, ever, have to look at his mother’s ugly purple dress._

_R.S._

_October 30 th, 1982_

_I found out yesterday that I’m a rare statistic. Everyone here is always jolted when I tell them the sexual abuse was from, and provided by my mother._

_That only happens, fuck, I think they said… 9% of the time? Or some shit like that._

_I see my doctor walking towards me in the courtyard. She has a small child in her hand. Her two-year-old son. He’s bubbly, blonde, and gripping her fingers._

_I’ve been ‘extra-suicidal’ lately- plans, letters, the whole fucking bit. Part of me wants to go through with it, desperately. I’d give anything to just get the hell out of here. I’ve had full privileges this past week. It would have been so God damn easy to walk through the three sets of double doors and out the front gate._

_The interstate isn’t far from here, and has a high overpass._

_“ **What if you jump and some poor fuck ends up with you on his windshield**?” Joey, my roommate, had asked._

_I hadn’t considered that. Scratching that plan for now._

_We’re having picnic table therapy today, I guess. I don’t mind too much, I can at least smoke out here. But when I reach in my pocket for my cigarettes, I stop when I remember the kid._

_Kids should always have a choice. This includes secondhand smoke._

_For a while I watch him bounce around the courtyard, picking flowers, having a grand fucking time. All I could think was, ‘ Enjoy it while it lasts, kid. You’ll get yours someday.’ But then he looks up with a goofy fucking grin and runs up to his mother-my doctor- and I realize I’m wrong. Not this kid. He’ll be fine because he’s protected._

_“ **So what’s making you want to hurt yourself**?” Dr. Boxill asks._

_I don’t answer. I’m watching the kid. “Someone should be watching him.” I huff at her._

_She smiles and says, “ **He’ll be fine, but you’re not. What happened?”**_

_I can’t stop staring at the kid._

_I want him to fall or something, to prove that his mother was just as neglectful as mine._

_“ **You were about his age when your mother started hurting you, weren’t you?”**_

_“No,” I replied defensively. “I was at least four. Maybe five.”_

_The words felt revolting falling out of my mouth so casually._

_“It really was my fault.” I had told her. I remember wandering into my parent’s room to look for my father’s cologne. I had wanted to smell like him. I saw the square bottle on the dresser, but my mother came out of the bathroom to catch me first._

_“ **Is that why you want to go away for good**?” Dr. Boxill asks now. _

_I don’t answer._

_I watch the kid pet a fuzzy dandelion and sing to himself as the threads of spun silver floated up into the air._

_“ **You remember your father’s reaction to finding you rented in bed with your mother and another man? Is that what made you want to hurt yourself?”**_

_Couldn’t I just die and come back as this doctor’s kid?_

_I would be such a good kid if I had it over again._

_“ **He should have spoken up, Rick**. **Kicked her out. Protected you**.”_

_“Right,” I reply “Why don’t you go and tell him that? Oh, right-he’s in the fucking ground.”_

_“ **I would if I could, Rick.”**_

_This makes me laugh, but it’s a forced, high pitched laugh. Elizabeth and I used to call it the ‘keep-away’ laugh. It’s the ‘laugh-so-you-don’t-cry’, tactic. Dad was a hardcore Catholic. He chose to look the other way when it meant his marriage may have been in jeopardy._

_“ **That’s funny**?” she asks. Perceptive bitch. _

_“I was just thinking about what my mother believes. The first time I tried to kill myself, she sent me a letter in the hospital saying I was insane, mentally unstable, and ‘full of demons’.”_

_“ **Do you believe in demons?”**_

_“At one point in time I did. I assumed I was living with one.”_

_“ **Rick, did you ever consider that your mother was the crazy one?”**_

_“Briefly.”_

**_“Don’t you think it’s insane to abuse and sell your children in that way, then tell you that there’s demons inside of you? And tell you that’s why you feel bad?”_ **

****

_I don’t answer **.**_

_The kid is crying. “ **Excuse me** ,” Dr. Boxill says. I watch as she bends down next to her son, who is holding the bare dandelion stem in his small fist. She pulls him into her lap, rocking him back and forth. As I listened to the melodic rise and fall in her voice, I imagine her whispering about love and loss. _

_Watching this small boy lose his first dandelion and get the comfort he needs breaks the dam._

_When she comes back to the table, I’m crying so fucking hard my shoulders are shaking. The same hand that held her little boy reached out to give me a tissue. Her other hand rests on my shoulder. I thought therapists were never supposed to touch their patients, but this time I’m glad she’s broken the rule._

_Once I stop crying, she pointed to this journal on the picnic table, asking about it. I tell her I take it with me everywhere now, afraid I’ll forget again. It’s my defense against my mother’s voice inside me that says, “ This didn’t happen. You just imagined it.”_

_I tell Dr. Boxill that my journals are my place to say, “ **Yes, it did. ”**_

_R.S._

_November 5 th, 1982_

_I’m starting another new stupid ass group today called “Ownership of Self”. Not sure if being put in these groups is a result of progress, or if they’re finding more things wrong with me._

_Sitting around the disgustingly cliché circle I see only two other men. They look to be a little younger than me, 19 or 20, maybe._

_“ **Today we’ll be discussing the control and authority we own over our bodies.** ” Says Dr. Getchell, apparently our new ‘sexual deviancy coach’. _

_This is so fucking stupid._

_She says, “ **Sexual trauma can lead us to feel our bodies are not our own to give away**.”_

_The lady passes out a couple small sheets of paper with pens as says, “ **No one will see your answer if it makes you uncomfortable, but I want you to write down the number of consensual sexual partners in your life. This includes oral sex, and any other sexual contact**.”_

_I cringe. Operative word here being ‘consensual’. That would have run my numbers up big time._

_It makes me think of my first ‘consensual act’, or whatever the fuck you want to call it. I was only 15 at the time, but tall for my age. I fucked this 17 year old girl behind a restaurant in an alley. The longer I’m in this hell hole the more I realize how incredibly fucked up that was._

_“- **you may feel like all you have to offer the world is your body** -“_

_Dr. Davis flashes in my mind. She was the first therapist I tried to see when Marie began bitching at me to get help. I went to see her a couple times, trying to appease Marie._

_Dr. Davis was attracted to me, and I could tell from the moment I met her. Women aren’t as easy to read as men when it comes to sexual cravings, but I've been groomed to understand sexual responses since almost birth. What signs to look for, what a person wants from me._

_The whore was incredibly easy to see through. In her mid-30’s or so, anyone could tell she was approaching the downward trend of her youth. I swear to Christ her skirts kept getting shorter every session._

_On the fourth session I fucked her over her oak wood desk._

_I never went back after that. Marie still doesn’t know._

_I look down at my paper. I settle on 150._

_What I would give for a fucking drink._

_But, maybe, that’s the point?_

_R.S._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -  
> -  
> Academia is to knowledge what prostitution is to love.

_November 11 th, 1982_

_Matthew Browning lived on the other side of my room in our apartment complex. I would see him leaving sometimes with his mother for school. Every now and then the Browning’s would watch me when no one else could be bothered to. Matt and I had a secret knock that we would share back and forth between the cheap drywall._

_One knock was, ‘hello’_

_Two knocks was, ‘want to play tomorrow?’_

_This was when the nightmare started to end, and the reality of my hell started to ooze up._

_Somewhere between the ages of seven and eight, my mother started to lose interest in me. I was no longer the small, blue-eyed, blonde haired child she cooed over._

_My hair started to get darker, and I grew a bit taller._

_One night when she was tucking me in, Matt knocked on the other side of the wall, twice._

_She froze for a few seconds, then hissed in my face ‘ **who the fuck was that?** ’. _

_When I told her she left my room without another word. I was never touched again after that._

_For a while I thought I did something wrong. That somehow I wasn’t as wanted as I was before._

_From the moment I took my first breath in this shitty existence, I belonged to her. Attached by flesh and bone, she owned me in every sense a person could be owned. I worry sometimes the power she took away from me will linger forever in the dark empty spot in my mind, where I can’t remember. _

_Because she’s hidden it away._

 

_R.S._

 

 

 

_November 13th, 1982_

_I’ve started music therapy Wednesday and Thursday evenings. Dr. Pete is pretty decent at the guitar, but he makes some really stupid fucking voicings. If you knew anything about the guitar you wouldn’t waste time using open chords all the time. Good musicians know when to use the barr._

_Mother bought me my first acoustic, a great Gibson. She scheduled my first lessons, but I had to promise to never tell. After the last knock and the guitar, I started to believe in prayers._

_The movements came back quickly even though I’ve put music away over the years._

_So far, it seems it’s been the most worthwhile part of this fucking hellhole._

_I played a few riffs from Strawberry Fields. I used to play it sometimes and Elizabeth would sing. She was a big Beatles fan. We used to fight about the mood of the song._

_I’d say, ‘Jesus Christ, Elizabeth, you shouldn’t sound so fucking happy.’_

_She would turn to me and say, ‘ **Hiding behind a smile is a lot easier, Rick. You know that**.’_

_I guess that was the big fucking gap between her and me._

_She imploded while I continue to fragment outward, piece by piece._

_R.S._

 

_November 30 th _

_It’s been awhile. I’ve been locked up for a couple weeks. Tried swiping some pills from the supply closet and fucking Joey ratted me out. I was going to beat the ever-loving shit out of him when I got out, but when I came back to the room his stuff was gone. Not sure if he was released, or asked for a transfer. Either way, I don’t really fucking care._

_And, unfortunately, I had a lot of time to remember during my ‘break’._

_Mr. Kisner was the local dentist. I have brief memories of his office sometimes. My mother would stay in the room with me while he inspected my mouth._

_The blinding light overhead always made him look colossal from my point of view._

_He would look inside of me, saying sweet coos as he cleaned my teeth._

_I guess my mouth was the first thing that appealed to the sick fuck._

_Every now and again I’ll have a scent or sound that triggers a memory._

_During my solitude it was the smell of the nurse who came in to check my vitals._

_Cucumber melon. Sickly sweet. A mockery of real fruit, over-stated and thick._

_He’s holding me tightly, hurting my arms. I hate it when I can’t move. The strange smell is over my tongue, in my nose. I can feel sharp, short hairs brushing my fingertips. I feel the shaky sigh and hot breath from someone around me. I look up to see Dr. Kisner rummaging around his desk for something, and I realize he’s let me go._

_I’m running towards the window, my body reacting for its own protection._

_I have no idea why I’m running, but my heart and body tell me to go farther._

_He catches me by my wrist, jerks me to the floor. I hit my head off of the hardwood and begin to cry, but I’m pulled up by a second arm. It’s my mother._

_“ **Rick? Ricky, be a good boy and go with Dr. Kisner**.” She’d say._

_“ **He’s going to take care of you**.” She’d say._

_Needless to say it’s fucked up my entire perception of what it means to ‘care’ for someone, the cunt._

_Dr. Kisner must have been my most frequent buyer, judging by how much I’ve been seeing him lately._

_Every time I find myself drifting into the black hole, he’s there, grinning at me._

_He had a disgustingly thick beard. It stands out more than anything._

_R.S._

_December 2 nd_

_I feel like I have a purpose when I get fucked. As if the resolution of my existence won’t matter unless I’m used. I need to do it feel something. Anything, other than think or remember._

_I started walking the streets about six months after Elizabeth died. I sold a few inventions to earn some cash, but there was no money left. And there was no fucking way I was working minimum wage, so it seemed like the logical option._

_I would wait until about eleven at night to walk under an overpass near Franklin Street. It was a pretty straight shot into downtown, plenty of shady side streets._

_I always carried a knife near my ankle._

_‘Can’t be too careful, you know?’ I would think._

_It was mostly older men who would pick me up. I always noticed their wedding bands. Most of them were married. They would drive by me slowly, watching me saunter down the street._

_I remember thinking it was destiny that these people even knew what I was there for._

_As if a slut like me wandering the streets was drenched in a different color._

_An entirely altered, revolting breed of human that only lived to please for money._

_Inelegantly, they’d roll down their windows and shout._

_‘Hey, kid!’ they’d bark._

_I was usually smoking, leaned in the window to ask what they were looking for. Most of the time they’d be too embarrassed to say the shit out loud, stuttering and looking stupid._

_I’d eventually just roll my eyes and get in the car._

_Services greatly varied, but most just wanted the vanilla blow job._

_I’m not really sure how long I kept doing it. It just sort of phased out when I met Marie. It wasn’t like I consciously thought of NOT being a hooker anymore, just turned out that way._

_She took me away more evenings, but I still found time to get away. The last time I walked was about three months ago. I kind of miss the thrill._

_R.S._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -  
> -  
> "Why didn't you tell anyone?"  
> -  
> "No one asked."  
> -  
> -

_December 15 th, 1982_

_Christ, I have a daughter. Elizabeth Marie Sanchez. An innocent, completely brand new, clean slate of a kid. I can’t get over how fucking perfect she looks. Doesn’t really make sense considering she has half my genes. At least she won’t be a complete idiot, but I’m worried what having a father like me will do to a kid. But then again, it doesn’t take much of an imagination to remember._

_The bitch finally caved and let me name her after my sister, but is insisting we call her ‘Beth’ for short._

 

_“ **You really want to be reminded of her all the time like that, Rick**?” she asked._

 

_She doesn’t fucking get it. At all._

 

_Sam was a perfect kid too. I should have known I couldn’t hold on to something so unspoiled without bringing total destruction. Maybe if I hadn’t been so fucking wasted I would have heard him crying, got to him quicker. Who knows how long I’ll stay in this kid’s life until I ruin it._

_Or worse._

_Marie feels it, too. She watches me like a God damn hawk when I hold the baby in the lobby of this sick fucking place. Looking at me like I might break the girl’s neck any second. Like I might just forget, and kill her in an instant. It cuts me more than anything, knowing that she’s right._

_I’m not to be trusted._

_R.S._

_December 21 st, 1982_

_The shakes have been getting worse lately. I can’t seem to focus on ‘getting better’ when I’m thinking about getting back to Beth. The pressure is getting to me. I haven’t eaten much at all over the past couple weeks, and when I do I can’t keep anything down._

_They’ve noticed, and have started me on a different med program._

_Antidepressants, vitamins?_

_I’m not sure._

_They don’t tell us anything they force into our stomachs._

_But, then again, we’re all used to that, right?_

_I’ve been seeing different dark spots in my mind recently. The first one happened during music therapy._

_Pete started playing ‘You are My Sunshine’._

_I saw a picture of Sam, instantaneously._

_Normally I can keep the thoughts of him way, way down, so I know I’m getting close to the bottom of this black hole._

_He was so small. I’m holding him while sitting in some sort of chair, the wicker creaking and aching my back. I’m humming the tune while he looks up at me with those bright blue eyes. I look up and Marie is screaming at me, but I can’t tell what she’s saying. She rushes forward to snatch Sam out of my arms._

_In that moment, Marie became my mother. I see her walking into darkness, holding Sam over her shoulder while he’s crying. Except it isn’t Sam. It’s me. She’s whispering to him over and over again in his ear, stroking his back._

_I completely lose it._

_I don’t remember what happened after that. Just the incredible ringing of anger, hate, and revulsion in my ears, down my throat._

_I want to ask Marie what happened, if I hurt her or Sam that night, but I can’t bring it up._

 

_She’s just starting to be ok with going to the bathroom while I hold Beth, with a nurse at my side, of course._

_R.S._

The black composition notebook slid slowly out of Morty’s wet hands and onto the ground. Heart pounding in his ears, his teenage mind was still trying to process all this new information. Bringing his knees up to his chest, the boy began to rock slightly as he glanced at his digital clock.

 

**_3:41 A.M_**.

He sniffled and wiped his nose. There wasn’t time to sleep. In fact, Morty was certain he would never close his eyes again. He wasn’t even halfway through the notebook, but the secrets he’d unearthed were too intense. Too personal, too painful. Too close. His mind was racing.

At first the boy had been certain of his motives before reading the book. Now, he was completely unsure of himself.

He could almost hear Rick’s voice in his head.

 

_‘Yeeeah, bet-bet you wish you hadn’t snooped in my shit **now,** HUH, M-Morty?’_

Following the voice was the image of Rick finding out he knew. Morty could picture Rick getting furious at him, maybe even hitting him. Would he leave? The thought made bile rise up in the back of Morty’s throat. How would Rick handle it if he _knew_ what Morty knew? Could he keep this a secret? _Should_ he keep this a secret?

_Sam Sanchez…_

Through trembles, Morty briefly recalled seeing the name somewhere before in the garage.

 

_But where?_

Rustling downstairs pulled Morty out of his thoughts.

 

_Rick is awake._

Morty wanted to see him, be with him. The connection of the words to Rick’s mind seemed so incredibly impossible that he wanted to see him again, just to be sure all of this was even real.

 

Standing from his bed, Morty straightened himself up a bit, throwing on a fresh t-shirt and shorts. Ruffling his hair, he took a deep breath and opened his door slowly. The house was completely dark, save a glow that was coming from down the stairs. With silent feet, Morty made his way down the wooden stairs and around the corner to the living room. Bright spikes of electric blue hair were standing up from the couch, facing the television. The program was loud, some sort of exploding jungle scene. Not wanting to startle him, Morty cleared his throat to announce his presence.

 

The tact was of no use as Rick jumped slightly at the noise anyway. The scientist turned to his right to give Morty a skeptical look.

 

“J-Jesus Christ, Morty. Wh-What are you doing up?” he asked. A box of wafers was in Rick’s left hand, and he absent-mindedly ate one while waiting for Morty to answer. The snack made Morty flash to the journal.

 

_‘ I don’t have eating issues. I eat all the time. I just can’t keep it down.’_

_Is that still true?_

 

Morty wasn’t sure what to say. ‘ _Oh nothing Rick, just up reading your journal when you were in the psych ward’_ didn’t seem to lend itself well. The boy thought of a lie, and it was a terrible one. Too close to the truth.

 

“I j-just, you-you know, umm… was-was just thinking about you, R-Rick.” He mumbled while nervously tugging at the bottom hem of his shirt.

 

Rick cocked an eyebrow at the statement, clearly skeptical of the answer. Seeming uninterested in prying too deep, he patted the empty seat next to him. Morty sat next to him softly, crossing his legs on the couch as Rick continued to eye him over.

 

“Wh-What were you th-thinking about me for, kiddo?” he laughed, taking another bite of wafer. He was distracted from his own question as the television erupted with several exploding heads.

 

“Wubalubadubduuub, _mother fuckers_!! Yeeeah!!!” Rick shouted at the television, leaning forward.

 

He slumped back into the couch with a grin on his face.

 

“K-Kinda glad you’re up. I hate having to-to be quiet.” Rick sneered at his own statement, turning to look at the boy again. The old man almost jumped out of his own skin when he felt Morty’s warmth on his side. The kid had somehow snaked his way across the couch and under Rick’s arm without noticing, leaning his head on his chest.

 

For a genius, he was having trouble reading the situation.

 

“Uhhh… wh-whatcha, whatcha doing there, M-Morty?” Rick stuttered, his arms still away from his body, tense as the boy continued the contact.

 

“I-I dunno, Rick… it just… I-I want to h-hug you, o-ok?” wrapping his arms around Rick’s torso, he felt the man huff slightly, shaking his middle.

 

“Wh-Whatever, M-Morty.”

 

The words were sarcastic, but there wasn’t anything mocking about the hold that Rick returned. Relaxing above the kid, he let his arm slump around Morty’s shoulder. The other hand held the remote while he kicked his feet up. Morty squeezed around his middle, burying his face into Rick’s warmth again. Morty almost burst into tears when he felt Rick give a small squeeze back around the shoulders. He felt Rick’s long fingers softly stroke the back of his arm as he held on.

Morty knew he wasn’t finished with the notebook yet. He couldn’t believe he had been brave enough to find himself here, in Rick’s arms. The gigantic, steel wall that Rick hid behind had a secret window that Morty had been able to gaze into. Seeing the frail, abused boy behind the façade made him hold on even tighter, knowing that deep down, Rick needed this.

 

“I-I love you, R-Rick.” Morty whispered against Rick’s shirt. He had said it so softly, he wasn’t sure if the old man had heard him. His answer was met with another shoulder squeeze and a quick kiss on his forehead.

 

“L-Love you too, kid. Now, sh-shut the fuck up! H-Here comes the good part!” he said, pointing at the television.

 

Morty grinned as he looked up at Rick’s face watching the television, so cheerful and full of excitement. There wasn’t a trace of haunt or hurt in Rick’s expression, as Morty quickly scanned it.

 

 

_‘ **Hiding behind a smile is a lot easier, Rick. You know that**.’_

 

 

The teen sighed and laid his head back against the chest of the man he admired so much.

 

‘ _He’s here, he’s ok. I… want to help him be ok.’_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not quite finished yet.
> 
> Thanks for reading, everyone!


	6. Chapter 6

_January 27 th, 1983_

_“ **What are your regrets**?”, Dr. Boxill asks during group._

_Jesus Christ, talk about a heavy question. Where does anyone even begin?_

_I don’t regret having a sick fuck as a mother._

_I don’t regret having a spineless father who was more concerned about saving face than saving his own son._

_I don’t consider anything out of my control a regret. Those are my burdens to carry. _

_But I do regret Marie. I hate that I let myself get so deep into whatever the fuck that was. The fact that I allowed myself to not only get caught up in the momentary blindness of infatuation, but to have created life. I never wanted anything fucking close to relation to me in existence._

_The Sanchez sickness won’t be stopped. And even though my folks are dead, I know that it runs deeper than I ever could have imagined._

_The memories are clearer now._

_Terrible flashes of skin and salt finally rising to the surface from murky waters, revealing its true revulsion._

_The sobriety has forced me to step into the light. They tell me this is a good thing._

_But, why the fuck would anyone want that? What’s so fucking great about the light, anyway?_

_Beth must be getting bigger. I can’t take much more of this bullshit._

_I never asked for help._

_-R.S._

Morty had woken in the early hours of the morning on the slow rising chest of his grandfather sleeping soundly in a slumped position on the couch. On quiet feet, Morty slipped out of his arms to sneak behind the furniture to grab the red fleece blanket, draping it over the man softly.

 

Back in his room, it had taken Morty approximately forty-eight minutes to come to the last entry of the journal of Rick’s mind. The last sentence made Morty’s blood run cold, reading it over and over…

 

 

**_I never asked for help._ **

 

 

It stood out more than anything to Morty in the old scratch paper. It was as if everything he had just read was another forced rape of Rick’s beautiful mind that made him put the thoughts on paper. They were secrets Rick openly admitted time and time again he never wanted to work through. Rick truly believed that he was fundamentally, to the core, too rotten, black and soiled to ever recover. Incapable of giving or receiving love, especially to himself.

 

The guilt of knowing was killing Morty.

 

 

 

 

 

A couple days had passed, and the odd behavior didn’t go unnoticed by Rick. When he stumbled into the teen’s room in the middle of a school night, he kept waiting for the initial pushback.

 

But it never came.

 

Morty just sat up in his bed quickly, rubbing his eyes and ran to put on clothes, ready to blindly follow Rick anywhere the deranged, drunk scientist led him. Rather than the typical drabble about school in the morning, Morty was ready for the adventure, any time, anywhere.

 

The tenth night in the row, Rick had about had enough of this even pussier-version of his grandson. It was like being followed around by a puppy who had been kicked too many times. The similarities shone through Morty’s big brown doe eyes and trembling torso and hands.

 

Running from the crossfire, Rick and Morty found themselves being chased by a horde of grotesque slug soldiers attempting to recover stolen crystal pollen from the pair. Big black market item, Rick had explained. A big time score. But the deal hadn’t gone quite as smoothly as Rick had intended, leading them into their current situation.

 

Seeing a nearby trash shoot, Rick grabbed Morty’s wrist as he whipped him around through the tube. Rick pressed a button on his wristwatch before jumping through the shoot after Morty. The teen’s screams were deafening as he prepared to be ejected into the crushing blackness of space, to certain death.

 

However the pressure never came as Morty landed roughly into the passenger seat of Rick’s spaceship. With no time to process his surroundings, Morty was winded as Rick plummeted on top of the boy from above. Rolling off of him quickly, Rick pressed a few buttons on the keyboard quickly as the ship separated itself from the garage hole, projecting into space and away from their pursuers.

 

“Woohoooo! Fuck _yeah_ , dawg!” Rick cheered after a moment, pulling his flask from his jacket.

 

 _You deserve an extra-long pull, baby_ , Rick had thought, shivering as the cold metal touched his lips comfortably, helping calm his nerves. However his eyes went wide as he glanced to his grandson, knees to his chest and rocking slightly. Rick wasn’t even sure if the kid was breathing.

 

“Uhh… y-you ok over there, Mort?” Rick had asked in an uninterested tone, hoping that Morty would snap out of it without needing too much attention. It was concerning to see Morty actually attempt to do just that, snapping his legs down into a normal position. His eyes looked completely wild as he tried to calm himself down, breathing shallow and erratic.

 

“I-I-I, y-yeah… R-Rick, every-everything’s j-just… j-just f-fine!” Morty managed, cracking an anemic smile.

 

Rick’s brow furrowed as he stared at Morty intensely, looking the boy over. Something wasn’t right, and Rick could smell it all over him. Casting his gaze forward out the window, Rick had had enough.

 

“Morty. Do-Do you have… do you something you want to tell me?” Rick asked coldly, taking another drink, avoiding eye contact. Morty’s energy became even more desperate than before, buzzing around the cabin as he tripped over his words.

 

“N-N-No! Geeze Rick, I-I-I just… I don’t know, I-I just… want t-to help.” He squeaked near the end as he looked to his right, away from Rick out into darkness.

 

Looking to his right, Rick’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Morty.

 

“And, and why is that, _Morty_? Do-Do you take me as someone who-who needs, _help_?” Rick asked through gritted teeth, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

 

Morty didn’t answer. He opened his mouth a couple times, no sound coming out. Rick made a sort of huff as he shook his head, taking another drink.

 

“Jesus fucking **_CHRIST_** , **Morty**. It-It really gets me some, sometimes, you know? Just how fucking _stupid_ you must think I am.” Rick growled, shaking his head, turning his eyes away again. The question hung in the air heavily, the weight threatening to crush them both if there wasn’t an answer.

 

 

“I know you read it, Morty.”

 

 

Morty’s eyes went wide as he stared at his grandfather, a look of boredom and annoyance plastered on his face.

 

“I-I-I… I’m sorry, R-Rick.” Morty whispered quietly. Pulling his knees back up to his chest and sobbing picking up again, Rick understood the deeper context behind his apology, and it infuriated him. Whipping around quickly, Rick shoved Morty up by the collar, gaining the boy’s full attention in fear.

 

“No, NO Morty. Y-You fucking. DON’T, fucking do THAT. I’ve had enough pity to last me a f-fucking ** _lifetime_**. You get it?” Rick bellowed, shaking the boy before seeing his tears dry up. Morty nodded mutely, his small hands clenching at Rick’s forearms. With a heavy sigh, he let Morty go to direct his attention back to the emptiness in front of him. Rick scratched the back of his head as he stretched his back in a halfhearted effort to regain some sense of comfort the pair may have left for each other.

 

Taking another swig of his flask, Rick gagged on the bitterness of the tension and heaviness of the boy beside him.

 

“L-Listen, Morty. I’m… I’ll give you one time. You, you can ask me anything you want, this One. **Fucking**. Time. A-And then I never want any of it ever brought up again. And I-I want the fucking thing back. Do, do you fucking _understand_ me, Morty?”

 

 

Nodding slowly, Morty’s first question came spilling out before he had a chance to think.

 

 

“Rick… do you really think you’re… bad?”

 

The inquiry was barely above a whisper, but it kicked Rick in the chest.

 

He felt his muscles tighten as he gripped his flask harder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> Water is sweet, but blood is thicker.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this update taking forever! I've been a bit unsure as to which direction to take this story... but I think I know now.
> 
> They should be coming quicker after this. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!

 

Morty sat in the back of the classroom, his mind somewhere else. He wasn’t concerned or aware of the annoying glances he was receiving from his surrounding classmates. Tapping his pencil on the side of his desk, Morty bounced his leg anxiously as he let the methodical rhythm of his muscles calm his nerves. When he began tapping his fingertips along with the pencil, he was jolted by a rough voice in front of him.

 

“ _Morty._ Are you even paying attention? I ASKED YOU, what’s nine times eleven?”

 

Morty sat up quickly to see Mr. Goldenfold standing in his personal space, his arms crossed and tapping his foot, waiting for the boy’s answer.

 

“S-Sorry sir, I-I-I…” Morty trailed off. He was distracted again by the curious gazes of his classmates staring at him. His eyes locked with Jessica’s as she looked at him quizzically. He felt a tightness in his chest as he could practically feel all of the energy directed at him.

 

“…I-I… I have to go.” Morty stuttered, standing and abruptly running past Mr. Goldenfold to make his escape. He grabbed the contents on his desk just in time, not listening to the disapproving cries of his teacher behind him.

 

 

 

 

Morty didn’t stop running until he was several blocks away from the school, completely out of breath. He felt himself begin to shake as he tossed his book bag to the ground at a local park, under an oak tree. With hands on his knees, Morty took huge breathes as sweat dripped down his back uncomfortably. Leaning back on the tree trunk, Morty slid down his back, letting his feet stick out in front of him. Looking to his left, he reached for his backpack, pulling out the black composition notebook.

 

Morty held it in-between his hands, his thumb grazing the cotton texture of the bound. His other hand swept over the cover, taking in the feel of the plastic.

 

So much had changed over this one notebook. Morty had hoped the confrontation of the notebook to Rick would have ended with a bonding moment. He gritted his teeth as he recalled the expression on Rick’s face, full of pain, regret, and anger.

 

 

 

 

“ _J-Jesus **Christ** , Morty… I thought you wanted to ask me REAL questions. Not….n-not how I’m fucking **feeling**. If-If you wanted me to open up, you can just get in fucking line along with, with those idiot fucks in California, Morty._ _Because you’re wasting your God damn time. J-Just fucking forget I offered.”_

 

 

Morty had tried to retract the question, tried to ask Rick more factual questions. But after asking about Sam, Rick exploded.

 

“ ** _MORTY. TH-THAT’S ENOUGH_** _. Just, just forget it. L-Leave the fucking notebook on-on my desk.”_

Rick refused to make eye contact the rest of the drive home, totally ignoring his grandson. The boy couldn’t take his eyes off Rick, however, afraid he may crumble at any moment. If someone hadn’t been looking close enough, they wouldn’t have noticed Rick’s shaking hands, his shallow breath, or the two entire bottles of liquor finished before they arrived home.

 

But Morty noticed. And it scared him shitless.

That was almost a week ago, and Rick hadn’t looked him in the eye, or spoken to him since.

 

 

Morty looked at his watch.

 

**_3:45_ **

 

Safe to start heading home.

 

 

A few blocks later, Morty stood in front of his house, conflicted. A big part of him wanted to go into the garage to see Rick. But this would mean giving up the notebook. The only window into his grandpa’s past. After debating, Morty knew deep down that Rick would reclaim it one way or another.

 

Yeah. It would be better to surrender it now. Actually, Morty was certain the only reason he was able to hold onto it another week was because Rick had been consistently intoxicated since that fateful ride home.

 

Morty took a breath and tiptoed in front of the garage, the door half open. Crouching down, he braced himself for what may be waiting on the other side as he stepped under the door.

 

“…R-Rick?” Morty half whispered.

 

Looking around the room, his heart sank to realize Rick was no where in sight.

 

And the spaceship was gone.

 

With a heavy sigh, Morty walked across the room to sit in Rick’s green chair. Reaching into his book bag, Morty gripped the notebook to pull it out. Staring at it one more time, Morty sat it on the workbench in front of him. Grazing it with his fingers one more time, he choked back a sob as he picked up his bag, heading into the house, up to his room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Into the early morning hours of a Tuesday, Rick Sanchez landed his spacecraft in the front of his daughter’s home.

 

‘ _Thank Christ this thing has an autopilot’_ Rick had thought a few hours previously. His destination had been nowhere in particular that evening. Several bars and clubs a few galaxies away, drinking, fucking, and drugging himself into oblivion, as his schedule had been since his discussion with Morty.

 

He had set a new personal best this evening, drinking over two liters of whiskey on the drive home alone.

 

Stumbling towards the workbench, Rick began laughing at his own feeling of lightness. Sitting in the chair roughly, he wiggled his fingers in front of his face, marveling at the different string of colors that shone through its movements. As Rick spun from side to side in his chair, still looking at his fingers, his blood ran cold when he caught something in the corner of his eye.

 

_That fucking notebook._

 

Reality came crashing down quickly, and Rick began to feel a familiar chatter begin to bubble up in his jaw. He screwed his eyes shut, gripping his hair, with elbows on the table. He opened his eyes to look straight at the cover of the book.

 

His hands began to join in the chatter. It was getting more difficult to take a breath.

 

“Ch-Christ…. N-n… **N-NO**!” Rick cried, his body taking his mind hostage. His scalp began to sting as his fingers gripped harder, painfully so.

 

Rick felt himself falling. The black hole threatening to swallow him entirely. It was a feeling Rick was too familiar with.

 

‘ _Come on, Sanchez… **count**._ ’ Whispered some voice deep in Rick’s mind.

 

“…. _f-five_ …” Rick choked out. The feeling of white hot pain jolted through his fingertips as he gripped the bench, the wood drawing blood under his nails.

 

“…. _f-f..four_ …”

 

_Don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it._

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

The chatter began to slow.

 

“… _th-three_ …” Sitting up slightly, Rick felt himself begin to regain control of his limbs, his chest still heaving. His pulled his hands away from the bench, letting them hang at his sides.

“… _t-two_ …” He was almost back, his muscles ached.

 

Opening his eyes, he took slow, deep breathes as he looked down at the black book. Reaching up his hand, he hesitated before touching it. As if the contact may release some sort of terrible creature that the man had kept locked away in his mind for all these years.

 

“…One.” He whispered before touching the book.

 

 

Flipping through the notebook was painful. Rick didn’t dare to stop and read an entire passage. The passing glance of certain words was almost too much. He was about to toss the notebook into his safe before a small dog-eared corner caught his eye. It was on the last page, and Rick’s eyes widened when he realized the handwriting was not his own.

 

 

 

 

_Rick,_

_I wanted to apologize for taking your notebook. It was wrong of me to look through your things. The book stood out to me, and I only took it to learn more about you. By the time I realized what I had gotten myself into, it was too late._

_Please just know that I love you. We all love you, Rick. You are deserving of love. A million times over. _

 

_You’re my best friend, and I don’t know what I would do without you._

_I hope that you can forgive me._

_-M._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love is the oil that eases the friction.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying I will try again tomorrow.

 

* * *

_December 16 th, 1982_

_I was what they called a ‘bad kid’ in public school. I learned to say **fuck you** at an early age, and ‘fuck’ was one of my favorite words to say. _

_Fuck, it still is. Needless to say I didn’t last very long in that setting._

_I remember the one time I said ‘fuck you’ to my mother when I was about five years old. I was outside playing and she wanted me to come inside. When I finally came in, she started yelling at me because of some toys or something I had left lying around, and that’s when I said it._

**_ Fuck you _ ** _._

_She grabbed me by both wrists hard, and pulled me towards her. I remember she looked terrifying as she hissed in my face._

_ That will be the last time you **ever** say that to me _

_In my peripheral vision, I saw the bright yellow glass of beer bottles. I still remember the feeling of my stomach dropping when I realized just how deeply in trouble I was._

_She dragged me upstairs, all the while I was kicking and screaming. I grabbed ahold of the wooden railing, but she reached up and kicked my hands away. She took me into the bathroom. I remember the steam rising from the water in the sink. Turning it on full blast, only hot._

_She still had ahold of my wrist when she said, You’re a bad kid, and forced my hand under the water._

_I screamed, I cried, and I begged. She was so much bigger than me, and the pain was so intense. I don’t know how long she held my hand, but when I looked down my hand was peeling, angry, raw and red. I’ll never forgot how easily my flesh fell off._

_Not only did she burn my flesh, but she burned into my soul the idea that I was wicked. That was why I was being punished. I was no good, rotten, a mistake. There was, and still, is no hope for me. I was born broken, and it’s who I’ll forever stay. She taught me that._

_-R.S._

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

_December 26 th, 1982._

_Sam had the brightest eyes of any kid I had ever seen. Maybe it was my own narcissistic mind playing tricks on me to see my genes in a more important light. I was honestly angry when I found out Marie was pregnant. For the longest time I had assume she cheated on me and been knocked up by some other useless fuck._

_But I knew the moment I saw him. The moment I held him and looked into his eyes._

_I’ve seen more galaxies, stars, planets and moons than anyone else on Earth._

_When I looked at him, and he looked at me, I could see the universe in its entirety through his eyes._

_So incredibly clear blue._

_It was the first time I had ever felt real love in my entire life._

_Warm, all consuming, helpless, terrifying love._

_When he was taken so suddenly with no ex-_

Rick choked back a sob as he glanced through the pages. Looking down at his hand, Rick still adorned the scars of the incident, though several new scars had tried to cover them. There was always the hope that if new wounds could cover the old ones, then maybe they could be buried deeper.

 

Over thirty years had gone by, but again, Rick felt the same hitch in his throat from the past, unable to continue reading the entry.

 

Stumbling an arm to his right, Rick grabbed at the flask sitting on the workbench. Taking a long sip, he slammed the sterling silver container on the wood with a crash. He stood, swaying, as he glanced across the garage with heavy blue eyes. Slowly, he was able to move his feet across the cold cement room to the shelf. Before he could complete the distance, Rick felt his knees buckle beneath him.

 

Rick braced himself for the impact, but it never came. A warm sensation wrapped around him as his mind spun. With whatever strength he had left in him, Rick lifted his head to try to get a glimpse of whatever was holding him up. He inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of the texture beneath his nose.

 

He knew that smell. He would know it anywhere.

 

“M…Mor…Morty?” Rick croaked.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Morty recognized the crash of the spaceship as soon as Rick had arrived home. The boy was a bit worried he wouldn’t hear his return, but he found it a fruitless worry with his insomnia. Morty was unable to sleep a wink, his gut twisted in a million knots filled with barbed wire and acid. Throwing up had become a norm for Morty since that first night he found the notebook. His throat was starting to become sore from the bile burning his skin. In total, he had lost eleven pounds in the past week. The small yellow trash can stayed close by his bedside at all times now.

 

He ran from his bed, down the stairs to the garage a few minutes after the clatter. Morty wanted to make sure Rick at least was completely out of the spaceship before going down, in fear that he may take off on him.

 

Peaking past the wooden door, Morty’s eyes widened when he saw Rick, standing and swaying in the middle of the garage, his face totally blank.

 

“…R-Rick? Rick, are-are you ok?” Morty asked, warily watching Rick’s swaying form. His thin, tall frame seemed to have so far to fall. Rick didn’t seem to hear him as he attempted to move one foot in front of the other.

 

As soon as Morty saw Rick’s legs begin to tremble, he rushed through the door to catch him. Just in time, Morty caught Rick by his waist before he could topple to the cold cement. It made Morty cringe to think about all of the other times he had found Rick passed out on the garage floor.

 

 

No one had been there to catch him then.

 

 

 

 

It took about fifteen minutes for Morty to guide the entirely trashed old scientist to his cot. It wasn’t that Rick was difficult to guide, but his long limbs kept tripping over various objects in the living room. Morty managed to grab the lamp before it could shatter on the ground. Once upstairs, he sat with Rick gently, still holding him by the waist. Rick was mumbling incoherently as Morty lightly pushed him to lie on his back against the cot.

 

“Y-You, y-you… g-good…g-good kid, Muh… Mmmm…”

 

With his arms above his head, Morty sighed in relief as Rick’s snores filled the room.

 

At least it meant he was _breathing._

 

After covering Rick with the green cotton blanket, Morty reached down to take off Rick’s shoes. He untied them slowly, quietly, as to not wake Rick. Though, it was probably a little pointless, considering how completely out of it he knew Rick was. He wiggled each shoe off and set them down neatly on the floor.

 

About an hour passed, and Morty sat crisscross on the wooden floor, watching as Rick slept. Though it was the dead of night, Morty couldn’t bring himself to leave the man’s side. Rick _needed_ someone to look after him. He _needed_ someone to love him unconditionally.

 

He looked over at the clock.

 

 

**_7:17 am_ **

****

****

It was almost time to get ready for school. Any other time he would opt for skipping, but a stupid English test was looming over Morty’s mind. Slowly, he stood up from the ground back to his feet. He looked Rick over one more time, content with the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. Hesitantly, Morty reached out a hand to brush away the hair in Rick’s face. Rick fidgeted slightly at the contact, but settled almost immediately. Morty only hoped that Rick wouldn’t wake up to do anything drastic before he could make it home from school.

 

Morty knew he had some research to do. And he could only hope he wasn’t too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ReMoved- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOeQUwdAjE0
> 
> Please watch this video.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -  
> Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets.  
> -

_October 26th, 1982_

 

 

_“ **Ok, Rick. What is this a picture of?”**_

_Mrs. Ophelia from the shrink’s office holds up a picture of a dog. I’m only seven years old, but my stuttering is starting to become a ‘distraction’ I’m told, for the teacher. That along with my outbursts has ended me up in this fucking place. Turns out it didn’t do much good, I guess._

_‘You’re here to get fixed’, they tell me._

_I open my mouth, but no sound will come out. Doctors have always made me freeze up._

_I’m starting to understand why._

_I remember another doctor joining the woman. He was a younger man, maybe late twenties. My heart is pounding in my chest as he crosses the room, tries to shake my hand._

_ Please don’t touch me _ _, I think._

_I can’t seem to make eye contact, and everything sounds a bit fuzzy. But like a beam of light through fog, I hear one question in particular._

_“… **are you happy at home, Rick?”**_

_Looking back, she really was a clever bitch. My mother had me perfectly groomed, a response ready for every question._

**_ Don’t tell, Ricky. It’s our special secret. You love Mommy, right?  _ **

****

_I nod my head quietly as I look up. The pair seemed a bit surprised- my first reply during the session._

 

_“ **Rick, tell me about your parents. Do they ever hurt you?”**_

**_ This is what big boys do, Ricky. You want to be a big boy, don’t you? You’re so grown up.  _ **

****

 

_I shake my head no._

_Sometimes when someone hurts you so bad, you stop hurting at all. They can’t hurt me, because I’m empty inside, so there's nothing left to feel._

_I’m lost in the darkness, deep within myself._

_I hear the voice of the woman in front of me._

**_“What’s that you have there, Rick?”_ **

_I look down and realize I’ve been playing with the small silver pendent around my neck._

_It reads, Colossians 3:20_

_It’s about love, I tell them. Because it’s what she told me to tell anyone who asks._

_It wasn’t until many years later that I would come to understand the verse. As if the bitch needed to brand me in other ways, she required me to walk around with this necklace._

_She would twist my arm and say, “ **Don’t ever take it off. Or you will be punished.”**_

_That was enough for me._

_-R.S._

The library is quiet and dimly lit. The gentle hum of the remaining overhead lights was the only sound to be heard, save the quiet clacking of Morty’s keyboard. The wooden desk he sat at was long, and comfortably sturdy. He’s been here for several hours now, taking notes, searching for answers on his laptop. Morty nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a warm hand on his shoulder. Relief flows through him when he looks up to see Mrs. Greenhouse, the old, kind librarian.

 

“Morty? I’m leaving now, sweetheart. I’ll leave this last light on for you, the janitor will lock up.”

 

“Th-Thanks, Mrs. Greenhouse. I-I really appreciate it!” Morty stutters nervously. With a smile, the librarian takes her leave through the double doors.

 

A tension Morty didn’t realize he was holding relaxes, his shoulders slumping. He rubs his eyes as he looks at the time on his laptop.

 

4:50pm

 

Running the risk of these internet searches in the same house as his family couldn’t be taken. The daily struggle of wanting to communicate Rick’s past to his mother was becoming almost unbearable. One person invading Rick’s privacy was already too much, and he, from what Morty had read, knew Rick had to be the one to come forward willingly.

 

Morty stands, stretching his arms up. He cracks his neck uncomfortably, sitting down again. Reaching into his bag, he pulls out a small plastic container of saltine crackers. Popping the top, he grabs one and nibbles lightly. The subject matter was hardly easy on the stomach, and Morty hadn’t really eaten for days. After one cracker was gone, he looked down with disdain at the remaining crackers and shrugged, tossing them back in his bag. At least he tried, right?

 

He glances at the notebook he’s been writing in, typing in one more search before heading home. He had been saving this piece for the very end of the day, trying to prepare himself mentally for the result. As Morty continues to dig deeper, he begins to see the puzzle of his grandfather’s character fall together.

 

 _People are the way they, for a reason. _Morty writes.

 

His heart is pounding in his chest as he looks at the computer screen. Morty realizes he has entered a new stage of grief for Rick- _anger_. Morty can feel it burning throughout his entire body as he reads the words in front of him. How could anyone ever be so selfish?

 

 _It destroys who a person was meant to be_, Morty writes.

 

_ Manipulative. Sick.  _

 

Slamming his laptop closed, Morty seethes, his hands gripping the table. His knuckles are white from his grip, and his chest feels tight.

Rick had given clues time and time again, and the pieces were beginning to fall…

 

‘ _There is no God, Summer… better rip that band aid off now...’_

Christ, it was just all too much. How could he have been so blind to what Rick was going through? Every word, every action, every hurt, all pointing in one direction.

Stuffing his laptop roughly into his bag, Morty grits his teeth as he makes one last note before heading home.

 

 

 

Colossians 3:20-

_“Children, obey your parents in everything, for this pleases the Lord.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was inevitable, really. Once someone knows the truth about you, it’s never the same. The sad glances, the tip toeing, the ‘ _hey, how ya doin champ?_ ’

After so many years, Rick finally thought that he’d outrun the sympathy.

 

_‘Oh gosh, don’t you know what he’s been through?’_

 

No fucking thank you. It was a good run while it lasted.

 

 

 

Rick had woken in the late afternoon of the day to an empty house. Empty was bad- it meant he would be alone with his thoughts. And it didn’t take him long to come to the conclusion of what he needed to do, and he’d spent the entire afternoon preparing just that.

The concrete echoed beneath his feet. You never realize how hollow a room truly is until you stand in it alone. He hates himself, with every fiber of his being. The burning ache in his ribs can’t be recognized as anything other than what it was- _regret._

It cripples. Like a knife twisting and turning clockwise in your chest, over and over again, but refusing to give you relief by death. He wonders how a pain so internal could possibly hurt this much. Rick mostly wonders because it’s been many, many years since he’s let himself feel anything on the inside at all. It’s not a one-way street. If you open yourself up to feeling something good, it leaves the door open for something terrible to follow after.

 

As soon as you begin to love, care for someone, let yourself be caught up in the little moments.

_They can be taken, with no flicker of a warning._

 

Rick sways on his feet, gritting his teeth. Gripping the green glass bottle in his hand, he slams it into the ground, erupting and skidding shards across the room.

 

He can’t live this life. He's let himself get too attached again. Sooner or later, they’re all going to find out how evil he is. How he has always been rotten from the inside all along. Rick knows he’ll only drag them down into the fires, one way or another.

 

The green portal pulses in the empty garage.

 

Rick doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Status of this story is still incomplete. More to come soon.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a curse in my bones  
> That’ll breathe and fly again  
> Until when we both are ghosts  
> I will miss you like a friend

 

 

_November 7 th, 1982_

_There isn’t much that bothers me, looking back on all the sick, depraved shit I’ve done._

_However there are a few select moments in my life that still haunt me._

_I’ll never forget the sensation of her bones cracking under my fingers, the sound of her scream._

_I could blame it on the alcohol, say that I didn’t know any better._

_But the truth is, I knew exactly what the fuck I was doing._

_She said ‘ **no** ’, over and over, tried to push me off, begging and crying. I didn’t listen._

_All I could think was, ‘ **she’s fine, she’ll live, I need this** ’. _

_After all, people had been pushing their desires on me my entire life, and I survived._

_I just wanted to feel good, to feel **any** fucking thing._

_The sick thing is, even though I knew I had hurt her, it didn’t slow me down._

_After it was over, I just left her there behind the bar, a heap of a human being on the ground._

 

_The monster lives in me._

_-R.S._

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

After a few minutes of rummaging through Summer’s closet, Morty grabs the dark blue hoodie thrown in the corner. It’s a bit baggy, but it’s definitely less conspicuous than a bright yellow shirt. He doesn’t want to draw attention to himself, and he figures wearing dark clothes might be… a start?

 

Morty fiddles with the hem of the cloth as he waits in the dark booth, the only light provided by a soft yellow light hanging overhead covered by a cheap looking plastic red funnel. Morty cringes as he looks up at the light, noticing the copious amounts of dust and grime gathered at the top. God only knows the kind of wicked, sick shit that dirt has collected over. His stomach feels like its flipping over and over again. It’s not like it was Morty’s first time venturing off planet alone, but it _was_ his first deal. His palms are sweaty.

 

He’s jolted by the sensation of a warm figure sitting next to him, followed by a shrill cry.

 

“Heeey Morty! How ya doing?”

 

It’s really very difficult not to be rude to aliens. It’s not that Morty _wants_ to react disgusted, but sometimes, you just _could help it._ The humanoid body paired with horrific, giant bug eyes and massive claws was something straight out of a nightmare. Swallowing, Morty tries to find his voice as he sits up a little straighter. He coughs.

 

“F-Fine, fine, th-thanks… did... d-did you bring wh-what I asked for?”

 

With a hearty laugh, he replies, “Sure thing, Morty! No problem at all! Did you bring the serum?”

 

Morty nods, and with shaking hands reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a small glass vile filled with a dark green liquid with alien script on the side. Hands still trembling, Morty places the vile in K. Michael’s claws. The alien holds it up to the light, examining it closely. Morty’s throat feels tight and his heart skips a beat watching the humanoid creature.

 

He wasn’t able to distinguish any differing facial expressions. Morty releases a hard breathe as K. Michael slaps a claw on the boy’s back in a friendly gesture.

 

“Ahhhh yes! That’s the stuff! This poison is hard to come by.”

 

Carefully, K. Michael opens up a small pocket on his vest and drops the vile in. Reaching behind him, he pulls out a large white envelope and hands it to Morty.

 

“Here you go, Morty! Everything you were looking for.”

 

“Th-Thanks…” Morty mutters as he grasps the paper. K. Michael stands, extending his grotesque claw to shake Morty’s hand.

 

“A pleasure doing business with you, Morty! Call me anytime!”

 

Reluctantly, Morty extends his hand back. He’s relieved to find the claw warm and smooth, rather than slimy. He gives a weak smile.

 

“Y-Yeah, th-thanks K. M-Michael…”

 

The pair separate, and Morty reaches into his pocket to pull out the spare portal gun Rick had given him for his birthday last year. Just enough charge to make it back. But before he can type the coordinates in, he feels a pressure on his back.

 

“-Oh! Morty! One more thing!”

 

Morty whirls around to see K. Michael again, claw on his shoulder.

 

“I found some additional information I think you’ll find interesting! Free of charge. Your grandpa’s such a great customer!”

 

 _He really is a nice guy... when he’s not assassinating someone_ … Morty thought morbidly.

 

“Gee, th-thanks, K. Michael! Take, take care.”

 

And with a mirrored head nod, the two parted ways.

 

 

 

 

The weather had taken a turn over the past few weeks. The air was a brisk as Morty stepped back into his bedroom. Once the portal was shut behind him, he tossed the envelope onto the bed, conflicted. His mind wondered as he reflected on the past weeks…

 

 

* * *

 

 

It had been exactly nineteen days since Rick had left.

 

Each day he was away made Morty feel emptier than the one before it.

 

Morty didn’t need to walk into the house to know he was gone. Summer had been waiting for him on the front step of the house. When he came closer, he saw that she had been crying. She stood with her arms crossed, a look of dread shadowing her features. 

 

Standing in the yard, the tingling started in his feet first, then travelled up Morty’s fingers and into his chest. Everything had begun to spin..The look on Summer’s face said everything that Morty was afraid to hear.

 

 

‘ _No…it can’t be’_

 

 

He ran passed her towards the garage, his heart in his throat.

 

Ducking under the door, Morty dropped his bag at the sight of the bare garage.

 

No papers, wires, microscope, tools, boxes… _nothing._

 

 

 _ No Rick _ _..._

_He’s…._

_gone…_

 

 

His mother took the news the hardest. Morty learned Rick had left in the early afternoon when no one was home. Rick didn’t leave anything behind, not even a note. If someone hadn’t been looking hard enough, it would be difficult to find any evidence of Rick Sanchez ever living there at all. The only scrap of his memory left behind was by the green cotton blankets folded neatly on the cot in his room.

 

Beth’s tears were silent and scarce as Morty hugged her. His eyes stung as she held him closely. The family had hoped that Morty would be able to provide some answers for Rick’s disappearance, but Morty could only shake his head, knowing his voice and heart would betray him.

 

An hour later, the family had solemnly retreated to their respective rooms. Sitting on his bed heavily, Morty could vaguely make out Summer sniffling on the other side of the wall. He rubbed his eyes with his palms, the tears making his face sticky and hot. He had laid back on his pillow, his head pounding with guilt and grief. But when he turned to his side, Morty’s hand brushed up against something under his pillow. It was something Morty hadn’t left there.

 

His mind was racing as he felt the fabric in his hands before pulling out the object.

 

Morty could hear ringing in his ears as he looked at the black notebook.

 

A small corner near the end was dog-eared.

 

 

 

_Morty,_

_This notebook of nightmares is for you. I can’t take it where I’m going._

_Let it be a reminder of all the reasons you shouldn’t come looking for me._

_Be glad for what you have, Morty._

_Be good._

_Be better than me._

_-R.S._

* * *

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a long and winding road
> 
> But you don't have to walk alone.
> 
> Because no matter where we are, I will keep you in my heart
> 
> And I will think of you as I go.  
> -  
> -  
> -  
> 

Morty sits on his bed anxiously, reaching for the envelope. The weight of his decision sinks into his heart. He tears it slowly and carefully, his breathing controlled, but somewhat labored. He reaches his hand in, surprised at the plastic, flimsy texture of the paper inside. It held more of the construct of an x-ray rather than a document.

It’s difficult to decipher at first. Morty had been clear in his needs to K. Michael, and the alien seemed confident he could deliver. After staring for a moment, a bright green light catches his eye on the bottom corner. It begins to move sluggishly, followed by a floating script.

 

 

**_‘Rick Sanchez C-137’_ **

****

**_‘LOC. G.M.T. 34002-1A’_ **

 

****

Morty drinks in the words over and over again, his chest tight with realization.

 

 

_He’s still alive._

Morty flops on his back, the x-ray map still in his hand. He watches the dot move about for several minutes, finding comfort in the soft green light. It’s easy to imagine the blinking may be Rick’s heartbeat, and Morty revels in the sight of his movements. It was never an option to _not_ search for Rick, but from his note, Morty had a dark thought in the back of his mind that Rick had perhaps went to a place beyond this life that Morty couldn’t follow. Now that the fear hadn’t been realized, he could breathe a little easier, think a little clearer.

 

_Rick can’t run away. He belongs here, and it’s up to me to convince him of that._

 

_But how?_

 

Morty reaches for the white envelope again, his curiosity flaring up as he feels another piece of content in the package. K. Michael had mentioned something about… additional information?

 

_What did he mean by…_

 

Morty shoots up out of bed, his eyes wide at the paper in his fingers.

 

His hands and legs are trembling.

 

“H-Holy sh-shit….”

 

* * *

 

_December 16th, 1982_

_Life is short , they say. Try to slow things down, it’ll be gone before you know it. _

_But my life has lasted an eternity._

_The world felt faster when Sam was around. Every second I had with him was too short. The feelings I had for him were unlike anything I’d ever experienced. No drug, booze, or whore could ever compare to the absolute, incredible high I felt when he’d babble or hold my hand._

_The mourning drips like a perpetual faucet, drowning me._

_No matter how hard I try to come to the surface, the loss of Sam will always pull me under. Every happy moment, any possible second of relief, he pulls me back into the hole._

_I deserve to be in the blackness with him. It’s taking too long._

_Marie didn’t fucking trust me from the start._

_Getting her knocked up was an accident, and I know she always resented me for it._

_She didn’t want kids, a career woman, as she put it._

_But, plans fucking change._

_Like she was ever going anywhere with her singing anyway. Fucking mediocre bitch._

_The image of Marie crying, hysterical, angry, is forever burned in the back of my eyes._

_The night he died, she wouldn’t stop hitting me._

_I could only let her. It didn’t matter when I felt my nose crack against her fist, it was what she needed._

_Marie gave me the greatest gift, and he was gone in the blink of a fucking eye._

_A little blue-eyed boy took my faith in the universe with him when he left._

_-R.S._

 

* * *

 

 

Shit, why didn’t he _think_? If only he had saved a bit more portal charge, he wouldn’t be in this mess. After years of travelling across leagues of distance in the blink of an eye, Morty felt ridiculous sitting on a bus. He’d been riding for several hours, but his destination still a day or so ahead of him. He could maybe cut it down to ten hours or so if he kept going.

 

The highway was dark and empty. Suspended in time, Morty felt frozen in the middle of nowhere.

 

But he wouldn’t stop now.

 

No. He _couldn’t_ stop now. Not when he was so close. It was just a bit further, and he could push himself. Morty knew he would walk to the ends of the Earth for Rick if it meant saving his life.

It’s about one in the morning, and as hard as he tries, Morty can’t find a comfortable position. Rotating from lying across the seat, neck against the head rest, against the window, and yes, for a few minutes he even tries the floor. The exhaustion was playing tricks on his mind, and he doesn’t hear the old woman approach him.

Older, late sixties maybe, she gently nudges him. Blearily, he lifts his head from the cheap plastic seat to look up at her. His skin makes an unpleasant squishing noise as he removes it from the budget material.

 

“Sorry to bother you sweetheart, but you look uncomfortable. I have an extra pillow, would you like to borrow it?” she said in a kind, quiet voice. With large owl glasses and silver hair, her slight hump is covered by a light blue sweater, and she wears a dark green skirt.

 

It took Morty’s mind a moment to process her offer, and he was almost brought to tears by the gift. Laying his head anywhere had been terribly uncomfortable, and the small soft pillow felt heavenly in his hands.

 

“Th-Thank you mam’…” Morty whispered.

 

Smiling at him, she notices him eyeing the crackers in her hand. Chuckling, she sits down beside him lightly.

 

“Here, sweetie.” She says, handing him the packet of crackers. “Help yourself.”

 

Morty doesn’t know what to say. After another heartfelt thank you, he scarfs down the first few crackers a bit ungracefully. It’s becoming clearer that Morty isn’t quite the adventurer he thought he was. Forgetting food? A pillow?

 

He can hear Rick’s voice in his head _… Rookie shit_ , _Morty. You’re a complete idiot._

 

“What are you doing all the way out here by yourself? You seem a little young to be travelling alone.” The old woman asks, watching Morty carefully as he continues eating the crackers. It had been too many days since he’d eaten anything at all, and the ache in his stomach was finally starting to subside.

 

“I-I’m… looking f-for someone.” Morty replies.

 

“Oh? Who is this someone, sweetheart?” she hands him a small bottle of water from her purse. He drinks it two large swallows.

 

“I-I’m… it’s a-a family member.” Morty whispers, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

“Ahh I see…” she says, trailing off. Reaching into her purse, she puts a ten dollar bill in his hand as the bus squeals to a slow halt.

 

“This is my stop, sweetheart. This isn’t much, but I hope it helps you. Stay safe.”

 

With a warm smile, she stands slowly, inching her way off of the dark bus, leaving Morty as the lone passenger.

 

“W-Wait! Your pillow!” Morty cries, standing with the pillow in hand.

 

“You keep it. Good luck in your search. Family is all we have in this world.”

 

When she steps off the bus, Morty is dumbfounded. The kindness of strangers hasn’t been anything Morty has ever experienced before. It warms his heart, and he grasps the pillow with both hands. His eyes are stinging from exhaustion and emotion. Curling tightly into a ball, he lays his head against the pillow on the window. Morty’s stomach clenches as he thinks about the unanswered questions ahead of him.

 

He watches as the first breath of winter’s snow beats at the glass.

 

The paper crumbles, and the green light shines faintly in his hands.

* * *

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Through the black starless water,  
> And the cold lonely air.  
> On the rock restless seas,  
> The vessel in deep disrepair.  
> And I swore they started singing,
> 
> I can still hear your voice.

 

* * *

 

“Jesus Christ, Sanchez, I… I-I can’t keep putting you up _forever._ ”

 

The young redhead leans against the wall behind the counter, trying to mask her flustered emotions with faux annoyance. She crosses her arms and huffs at him, hoping to convey her frustration. There isn’t much light, save the dingy, dim florescent overhead. The air is damp, and the carpet is musky with age.

He leans over the counter, long fingers reaching for her forearm, gripping her lightly. He grazes his fingertips over her flesh before pulling her forward towards the counter.

 

“C-Come on, baby. I-It hasn’t been that long. We-we’re gonna do reaaal good tonight, you’ll see. Come, come on, you believe in me, don’t you?”

 

The wolfish grin leaves her weak at the knees. He has a glow about him, a sense of self that ran truer than anything she’d ever seen. Leaning towards him, he nuzzles her neck, his lips brushing over her jugular. She tries to gasp, sound offended, but her body betrays her.

He brings up another hand to lift her eyes to his own, and he grins at her again.

 

“Well… Ok, but… you have to pay the hotel fee _sometime_.”

 

_Bingo._

 

“Of, of course, baby. Do-Don’t worry.”

 

Gripping her by the neck, she goes lax, not dislike a common animal becoming pacified by the action.

 

_It’s all too easy, really._

 

She’s practically panting with her mouth open when he makes his move. The tongue ring clacks roughly against her teeth as he kisses her, but he doesn’t let the sound slow him down, sucking and biting at her lower lip. She whimpers as he pulls away suddenly, leaving her wide-eyed and breathless.

 

“Th-Thanks babe. I-I’ll catch you later.” He says over his shoulder. He gives a half-hearted wave over his back as he walks out the door.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

There’s something about the marriage of the voices on a drum set. It is, essentially, all aspects of the human body. The steady, consistent rhythmic pulse of the bass drum resonates in the chest, while the high-hat pricks at the tips of the fingers. Nerves bundle and explode at the edge of the skin, like buzzing electricity that threatens to catch fire. The tom is a friend’s voice, the comfort of the durable plastic head underneath, liberating. It doesn’t ask for much, but gives so much in return.

The drumsticks are the agents, the bridge between self and instrument, morphing into one. Control of the self is imperative on the set. It’s your job to fill up all the little moments, show us the transitions, the path. How loud we play, how fast, when we peak? All incredibly obvious details the average listener glosses over. Without him, they are nothing.

This is where he thrives. He can hypnotize without ever being noticed. Perfectly camouflaged behind the more popular voicings, the drummer is the musician that essentially watches over the entire group. The shadow in control, the foundation. You probably don’t notice when he’s there, but you sure as fuck would notice if he _wasn’t._

Music is a two way street. You’re going to get out of it what you put into it. In the moment, how much of yourself are you willing to show? How far will you let it take you? Sometimes you’ll give it every piece of you, and it still doesn’t speak to an audience. These moments are the hardest. But the flashes where he feels that connection makes his heart feel like it’s going to burst.

It’s one of very few escapes he has. Another wonderful characteristic of playing music? It’s unaffected, no, _amplified_ by drugs and alcohol. The normal constant tension he holds in his shoulders can finally relax and let go, finally feeling complete in the moment.

 

It’s a good set, and his heart pounds as he walks towards the bar, his body still tingling with the high that a solid run rewards. The buzz is strong, but it needs help to keep it there.

Swiveling the red bar stool, he sits heavily, signaling to the bartender at the other end.

 

“Let me guess, Sanchez…scotch?”

 

He responses with a head nod, gesturing towards the lower shelf bottle behind the bartender.

 

“The usual?” he asked, sliding out three shot glasses in front of him.

 

“Y-Yeah” he replies in a gruff voice, scratching the back of his head. The caramel colored liquid rushes against the glass in a calming way, filling to the top. The bartender is careful not to let any splash, and he pushes the shots towards the blue-haired man. He tilts his head back, downing the first shot without flinching.

 

“Hey, Sanchez, you’ve got a visitor.” Barks a voice from behind. Turning around he sees Charlie, the bass player with an irritated twinge in his voice and on his face. Charlie isn’t normally one to bother with fan-based bullshit after a set, and it intrigues. But not enough.

 

He cocks an eyebrow.

 

“Well, t-tell them to fuck off. Not in the mood to-to entertain tonight.”

 

Down goes shot number two.

 

“Yeah boss, I uhh… told him that, but he’s a pretty persistent little wuss.”

 

He freezes. Slamming down the glass of the third shot, he grips it as the sticky liquid runs down his hands.

 

“A-A-, w-wait… it’s a _he_?”

 

“Yeah, a younger kid. Maybe like, 16 or so?”

 

He turns around, meeting the brown eyes of the boy across the way.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The green light has led him here, _The Brig_ , a shady dive bar with even shadier musical vendors and patrons. It’s Saturday night in the big university town, and the streets are littered with college drunks and sluts. They travel in hordes up and down the boardwalk, giving Morty skeptical glances. Some whisper and giggle at him as they pass, shouting unnerving things like, “Hey kid, where’s your mommy?” and “Looking for the Chuck E. Cheese?”

Morty tries to stand up a little taller walking through the streets, and adopts a stern look on his face that he hope reads, “ _Don’t fuck with me_.” It wasn’t too hard to copy. His grandpa had practically coined the look, and after years of watching him it felt somewhat… natural? His mind flashes to the notebook in his backpack-it was easy to try to think of things to keep him angry. Rick needs him, and nothing is going to stand in his way.

 

No one else says anything to him.

 

When he approaches the front entrance of the bar, an enormous, intimidating looking man dressed in all black leather stops him. He looks Morty up and down with a suspicious eye, waving his hands.

 

“Whoa, hold up, kid. This is 18+ only. Take a hike.” The man barks, shoving his thumb in a general direction away from the club.

 

“P-Please, I-I’m looking for-for someone…” Morty says in a quiet voice. He looks at the man’s shoes. The patent leather is shiny under the street lights.

 

“Sorry kid, but I don’t really give a fuck _what_ you’re looking for. Get out of here.”

 

The man starts to turn away. Morty swallows hard, taking a deep breath before grabbing the much taller man by his jacket. The bouncer looks down at Morty, clearly confused, but somewhat amused.

 

“O-Ok, LOOK y-you…. You p-piece of _shit_! I-I-I’m not leaving here until y-you tell me if-if someone by the name of S-Sanchez is h-here!” Morty shouts, his hands trembling in his grip on the jacket.

 

With a huff, the man straightens his lapels roughly, pushing Morty off. He’s silent for a moment, watching the boy closely. Reaching into his jacket, he lights a cigarette, takes a pull and blows it in Morty’s general direction. Morty refuses to cough or wave the smoke away.

 

_Ok, the kid has perked some interest._

 

“What the fuck do you want with Sanchez?” he asks with a laugh, taking another drag.

 

Morty’s throat catches.

 

_He knows him._

 

His breathing picks up a bit as Morty squeaks out, “H-He’s m-my… he’s f-family.”

 

A low rumble of laughter comes from the huge man, and he playfully shoves Morty back by the shoulder. It’s meant as a relaxing gesture, but the force has Morty stumbling back slightly. He regains his ground quickly, frustrated by the humor the man was finding in his ask.

 

“Get the fuck outta here, kid! Family? _Really_? I didn’t think that shit _had_ any family. None that he’s ever mentioned, anyway.” He laughs, taking another drag.

 

Morty takes another deep breath.

 

“P-P… _Please_ , just let me s-see him. J-Just for a-a second.”

 

“Hah, all right, kid. But I’ll be watching you. Don’t fucking try to sneak any booze.”

 

Morty doesn’t acknowledge him, and his shoulders relax for a moment as the man steps aside. But before he can step in, the bouncer says, “Ah ah ah, not so fast, kid. Ten dollar cover charge.”

 

 

Someone is looking out for him.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

It only took Morty a few moments to spot him. He was impossible not to distinguish. Morty sits wide-eyed at a small circular table near the back as he watches the show. His movements flail wildly, hands practically a blur over the set as electric blue hair shines under the black light. The music pumps through Morty’s body. He hardly notices the waitress approach him.

 

“Can I get you anything?” she asks loudly over the music. Morty jumps, putting his hands up and waving in a defensive motion.

 

“N-No, thank you.” She leaves him with a head nod.

 

Thankfully no one else approaches Morty again while the music plays. He can’t tear his eyes away, and his chest is tight. Morty is practically shaking from the nerves vibrating in his body. It’s possible he may even pass out before this is all over.

 

All of a sudden, too soon for Morty’s liking, they’re finished.

 

 

_It’s time._

 

Morty watches as the band members disperse and the bar begins to play generic music over head in the speakers. He sits at the bar, ordering shots. Morty takes another deep breath and stands.

 

 

_This is it._

 

Before he make his way across to the bar, he’s stopped by a tall, angry looking red headed man with a nose ring. He’s wearing a tie-dye Grateful Dead t-shirt. Morty realizes it’s the bass player from the band. He shoves Morty in the chest with two fingers.

 

“Hey, where in the fuck do you think you’re going?” he spats at the kid. Swallowing again, Morty tries to stand up a little taller as the musician glares down at him.

 

“I-I… I have to go talk to _him_.” Morty whispers, pointing towards the bar.

 

The man looks over his shoulder with a short, dry laugh.

 

“You wanna talk to Sanchez? Sorry kid, but he’s not really the type for autographs.”

 

 _This is getting ridiculous_ , Morty thinks, his blood boiling at the prospect of another person getting in his way of his mission.

 

“L-Look, I’ve… I’ve come a long way to see him, a-and you’re not going to stop me.”

 

 

 

 

The man finally agrees, but goes to the bar first. Morty tenses as he turns around, blue eyes locking with his own. He approaches cautiously after being waved over by the bass player. With trembling hands, Morty hops onto the seat next to him. The man looks to his right casually, pulling a cigarette from his pocket.

“Wh-what can I do for you, kid? Y-You looking for musical advice? Or-Or I have to go ahead and warn you, I-I don’t swing that way. May, Maybe a long time ago, but I-I’m outta that now.” He chuckles as he takes another drag and blows it out away from Morty.

 

Morty can’t stop staring. It’s unnerving, but eventually he finds his voice. Pulling out the photo from his back pack, he slides it to his left.

 

“N-No, I-I …c-came all this way to find you.” Morty whispers.

 

He pauses, looking down at the picture in front of him. It’s a nice looking family. But his heart stops when he sees the identical blue haired man in the picture. The same height, the same scowl, the same everything. His cigarette ashes his hand as he stares blankly, trying to piece together what he's looking at.

 

“M-My name is Morty a-and… you’re my uncle.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I've grown familiar  
> With villains that live in my head  
> They beg me to write them  
> So I'll never die when I'm dead

_The seedy bar is a fairly quiet hole in the wall underneath the 81 South overpass. All voices here are a murmur, a mutual respect of the private malevolence passed back and forth between patrons. You won’t find any loud, idiot drunks in here-only whispers in the dark over cheap scotch. No one has cloudy eyes, only alert, frantic darting back and forth across the booths. It’s a mediocre attempt in ensuring privacy._

_She plays with her straw, twirling the ice around, pretending to find it extremely interesting. There’s no turning back now. She’s come this far, and too much of her life has already passed her by because of Rick Sanchez._

_The large man across the table releases a heavy sigh. He reaches across the table, grabbing her hand and stroking her skin softly with his thumb._

_“Are you sure about this, Marie?”_

_Marie looks up with a curtly smile before tearing her hand away. She picks up the cold glass, downing the remainder of her scotch. The welcome burn down her throat was another reminder of the monster she’s turned into, thanks to Rick._

_“Yes, I’m… I’m sure. I need to be rid of him.”_

_She pauses, wringing her hands together. They shake as she grips them together in resolve._

_“…both of them. Just do it.”_

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“A-Another.”

 

“Sorry pal, gonna have to cut you off.”

 

Rick grits his teeth looking up at the bartender. A mid-twenties know-it-all who doesn’t know who he’s fucking with. Only about eight or so shots have gone by, but it’s still not nearly enough to get Rick where he wants to be. In a jolt of speed, Rick reaches across the wooden platform to grab the man’s collar, bringing his face close to his own.

 

“I-I… _s-s-said_ a-a-nother.” Rick slurs, his knuckles tight, but shaking.

 

Rick doesn’t hear the bouncer approach him from behind. He grabs Rick by the shoulders, throwing him to the floor. The attendee glances down at him, shoving him slightly with his boot.

 

“That’s it. Get the _fuck_ outta here, asshole. And don’t come back.”

 

Rick slowly gets to his feet, swaying as he gives the young bartender a death stare from behind the bouncer. He feels disoriented by the dim lighting and flashing lights near the dingy dance floor. After decide it isn’t worth the fight, Rick waves his hand in a dismissive motion, heading towards the door.

 

“Wh-What---URRP--- e-ever. **F-Fuck** this place.”

 

The bar door is wide and made of a heavy dark wood. Rick uses his shoulder to push through the other side, the chill of the night air stealing his breath. With hands in his pockets, he stumbles aimlessly through the streets of the quiet, snow covered town.

 

 

It was amazing and terrifying how easily Rick could flip the switch. His emotions like tiny anemic vines growing in the back of his mind. It wasn’t that he didn’t notice they had been growing thicker... sure, he’d whack a few away here and there when they started to creep too closely to his heart. But at best, Rick tolerated the attachment that was gathering within him. However more recently Rick felt the foliage growing deeper and stronger every second he was around his family.

 

He’d waited too long. It was more difficult to cut away this time.

 

The vines had grown too resilient. Stronger than he had originally thought.

 

It was ironic to find tangible vines and weeds on Elizabeth’s grave. So many years had passed since Rick had walked this path that he almost couldn’t find the head stone. The cemetery seemed to have burst with fields of new death. Like fresh seeds planted to be absorbed by the earth, the lone rocks seemed endless across the snowy plain.

 

Rick considers them the lucky ones.

All is quiet. No more pain. No more anger.

 

It takes him almost an hour to find her.

 

Rick falls to his knees. He doesn’t care that the snow is soaking his legs, and after a few seconds they have already gone numb. The alcohol in his stomach is keeping him warm for the most part, but his extremities are fading quickly. Rick wipes away the foot or so of snow and weeds that covered the stone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_…Elizabeth Sofia Sanchez…_ **

**_1947-1972_ **

****

**_A brilliant mind lost too soon._ **

****

**_A beloved daughter, sister, and friend._ **

****

****

****

 

 

Rick grips the top of the cold granite with both hands as he lets his head hang heavily. The cold whips at the hot tears that fall on his cheeks. They almost seem to burn. His voice is a ragged choke as the words spill from his mouth.

 

“…L-Liz… I-I’ve tried, L-Liz. I-I can’t… I can’t do this… n-not anymore.”

 

The snow is coming down harder now, and soon Rick looks up to see himself covered in the soft white blanket. It covers the stains of blood, alcohol and dirt on his jacket, and it makes Rick feel… _clean._

 

It’s a feeling that most take for granted. Waking up every morning with a fresh outlook on life simply wasn’t possible for Rick Sanchez. For too long he’s hurt others and continued his path of self-destruction into generations.

 

It was time to give in.

 

It was time for this to be over.

 

The cold is creeping into his gut now, and his vision darkens around the edges. Rick lets out a short, hollow laugh as he feels his body slipping.

 

 _Not a bad way to go_ , he thinks.

 

After countless close-calls and life threatening adventures, the idea of sleeping his life away in the snow fills him with a sense of calm. Perhaps his frozen corpse could stay here under the snow all winter. His body would be absorbed into the Earth and his flesh to bloom with the flowers of spring. The thought of it all going away suddenly makes Rick more exhausted.

 

 

_Tired of running._

_Tired of feeling._

_Tired of hiding._

_Tired of hurting._

_Make it stop._

 

Drowsiness wins as his hands slip from the icy rock and onto the ground. With his head on the unforgiving surface, Rick shivers as he feels the darkness closing in around him.

 

Death will hardly be able to believe it took the life of Rick Sanchez so easily.

 

_After running away from life and death for so long, death has finally caught me._

Curled up into a ball, Rick looks up to read Elizabeth’s headstone one more time. Reaching a hand up, his fingers brush at the sunken words.

 

“…L-Liz…S-Sam… i-it won’t be… much longer.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Jesus Christ, kid… I-I’ve heard a lot… a lot of, of fucking sick jokes in my day, bu-but, this one takes the cake.”

 

Sam scoffs as he slides the picture back toward Morty roughly, standing to leave.

What the fuck was this kid playing at? Money? Blackmail? Sex? He has to want _something._

 

“P-Please… y-you have to believe me!”

 

Sam takes a few steps away from the bar, not looking back while Morty begins desperately rummaging through his backpack. He’s clawing frantically until he feels the two plastic sheets of paper in his grip. Pulling them out, Morty stumbles over his words as he begins to rant.

 

“Y-Your name is Samuel Andres Sanchez, a-a-and you were born on June 29th, 1980, th-thirty-six years old-“

 

Sam freezes. Slowly he looks over his shoulder at the kid, giving him a glare.

 _Why_ in the _fuck_ does this kid have that information? Turning to face Morty, he begins walking slowly towards him, gripping his knuckles. Morty doesn’t notice as he continues ranting.

 

“-y-you went to the University of-of Wisconsin f-for a degree in p-per…per-“

 

Morty is trying to sound out the word when he’s grabbed by the front of his shirt. He shouts in surprise as Sam brings him in close with a hiss.

 

“I-It’s… it’s ‘percussion performance’, genius. A-And how… how in the fuck do you know all this? Hmmm? You, you into identity theft or some shit?” Sam shakes Morty slightly to emphasize his point as Morty tries to surrender with his hands up.

 

“N-No! No, please! I-I just… my, my grandpa Rick, he’s… I mean, y-your dad, he’s… in trouble.”

 

Letting go of his collar, Sam sits back down with a sigh. He reaches into his brown jacket, pulling out another cigarette. He runs a hand through his feathery blue hair. Morty’s eyes catch a glimpse of a few tattoos on the inside of his wrist as he moves. The teen drinks in his image, the lost son of the man he admires still alive, here in the flesh. Watching him move seems so familiar and surreal, like a distant memory. In only the few minutes in his presence, the subtle nuances of facial expressions, movements, and voice inflection leaves Morty light headed with processing.

 

Sam is tall, lean, and confident. His icy blue stare freezes Morty in his seat, the same sense of admiration, fear, and anxiousness ran through his body in a familiar fashion. It was as if Rick himself was looking right through him.

 

“Listen, kid…” he starts as he flicks his lighter.

 

“My folks died a loooong time ago. I-I mean, I was only a year old, I-I think. Was in foster care pretty much my whole, my entire childhood. If I had a dad, I-I think I’d be the first to know.”

 

Sam takes a drag, watching the kid carefully. Morty reaches into his backpack again, pulling out a green file folder. He sets it on the bar carefully, as if the evil contained within it may spew up at any second.

 

“No… i-it was… it was a set-up.” Morty chokes, his hands shaking.

 

Sam cocks an eyebrow. He tags another drag, still eyeing Morty suspiciously.

 

“Wh-What in the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

 

“L-Listen, I-I…” Morty begins, but he’s cut off by a loud vibration coming from his backpack. Blinking, he digs through the cloth to pull out the x-ray map from K. Michael. Morty is confused as he eyes it closely, realizing it isn’t Sam’s map that’s pulsating.

 

The blue light of Rick’s page is blinking slower, turning red… dimming.

 

Morty’s heart stops, his blood goes cold in realization.

 

“Please, he-he, needs our help! W-We… we have to go! _Now_!” Morty shouts frantically. He’s on the brink of tears as Sam stares at him. The man is immobile as he watches the boy create a swirling green mass in front of them. Before he can protest, Morty has Sam in a vice-like grip around his wrist, pulling him through to the other side.

 

Morty can only hope they aren’t too late.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm scared that you won't be waiting on the other side

 

* * *

 

_Little boxes in a row rest, each one less remarkable than the one before. Matching shingles, mailboxes, and window shutters are cloned and lined up and down the street. Slowly, like moths to a flame, the suburban families stand on their porches to face towards the Sanchez family home, sirens and lights flashing, an ambulance and firetruck parked on the curb. There isn’t much movement, but the sound of a woman’s scream cuts through the night, piercing through the darkness. The neighbors murmur amongst themselves, throwing around generic phrases of assumption and judgment. This isn’t the first time police have been called to this address._

_Rick Sanchez stumbles onto the lawn from the front porch. He vomits on his hands and knees, he struggles to breath. An EMT rushes to his side, trying to assist him with a plastic oxygen mask._

_“Sir, sir, we need you to breathe.”_

_Rick swats him away, pushing himself off the ground. He sways, still drunk, trying to force himself into sobriety. A police officer walks over to grab Rick firmly by the upper arm._

_“Sir, we need you to come with us.”_

_The hysterical screams continue as he’s led across the grass to the police car._

**_Everything is spinning._ **

_“Mr. Sanchez, we need to ask you a few questions.”_

_The leather of the back of the police car is squeaky and shiny, and the tone of voice used by the officer is confusing. The lights and sounds are disorienting, the voices sounding as if they’re underwater as the officer whips out a notepad and pen. Rick’s voices feels unfamiliar and ragged._

_“Wh…Where… Where’s my son?”_

* * *

 

 

“Jesus Christ, PLEASE! Hu-Hurry up!”

 

Morty and Sam land on both feet on the snowy ground in the dark of the night. The snow glows gently from the lamps that line the path above their heads. Sam is momentarily disoriented by the sudden change of scenery, staring blankly ahead of Morty. Frustrated, Morty runs back towards Sam, pulling him by his wrist.

 

“Look, I-I’ll explain everything later. W-We have to find him!”

 

Sam nods in understanding, following behind Morty closely. The snow is just below Morty’s ankle, and the untouched path seems silent and calm. Too calm for Morty’s liking. He scuffles through the snow, the winter air burning his cheeks. Gripping the plastic sheet in his hands, he curses his thick-headiness. In the panic of the moment, Morty had forgotten his jacket back at the bar. Determined, Morty pushes through the cold, following the dimming light faithfully. A second later, Morty is stopped by a hand on his shoulder pulling him back.

 

He looks up into the face of Sam, an expression of empathy on his face. Morty watches in astonishment as he slips out of his brown leather jacket and gathers it over his arm, extending it to Morty, leaving him in a simple black t-shirt.

 

“H-Here, kid. Take it.”

 

Morty blinks. “But… y-you don’t… you don’t even know me. Why…” he stutters, reaching to take the jacket.

 

Sam shrugs with a grin. “Y-You’re a kid. Kids need looking after.”

 

Morty smiles up at Sam, a wave of gratitude sweeping through him. Morty is startled by Sam’s sudden change of face, his expression turning serious as he looks over Morty’s shoulder about a hundred feet across the graveyard. A raise in the snow in front of one of the headstones has caught his eye, and he turns Morty around while pointing towards the direction.

 

“ _There_.” Sam whispers, his breathe a cold fog in the dim light.

 

Morty whirls around, his eyes scanning frantically. They land on the soft curved form atop of one of the snow banks. It’s scarce, but a faint patch of blue peaks through the whiteness.

 

Morty’s chest tightens, and his feet move faster than his mind. Running as fast as he can, he’s only vaguely aware of Sam following close behind as he completes the distance across the snowy field, dodging the white headstones littering the path.

 

Morty skids to his knees and reaches out a hand to touch the still form, shaking. Some snow falls away to reveal Rick, his grandfather, lips blue, skin gray, unresponsive.

 

“ **Rick! R-Rick**! _Rick_ , PLEASE… Rick!” Morty sobs, pulling the scientist up from the snow. Morty cradles his head in his lap. He moves to take off Sam’s jacket, draping it over Rick’s arms and neck. Morty begins feeling for a pulse, but he becomes hysterical from inexperience, his hands trembling from the fear and cold. Morty can’t control his tears, and he begins to hyperventilate.

 

“Morty, h-here…” Morty looks up to see Sam leaning over Rick, holding his neck with one hand, the other hovering over Rick’s nose and mouth.

 

Sam looks up, locking eyes with Morty.

 

“Kid, you-you need to calm down.”

 

Morty immediately settles, seeing the steely blue stare from Sam as he hears the command. He nods quietly, too shaken to speak.

 

“He’s… he’s still alive, Morty. But w-we need to get him help **_now_**.”

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

**_Christ, this little shit won’t stop crying._ **

_The brat was easy enough to snatch from the window, now he can’t be caught with it._

_The large man moves through the forest, in and out of trees. It’s a brisk spring night, and the baby over his shoulder writhes in discomfort. He shifts uncomfortably, releasing a breath as he sees his target._

_The east river moves in angry, fast, brown waves, the storm from the previous night still leaving the river reeling. A few trees are down near the bridge, but the man steps over them carefully, stopping to overlook the middle of the water. Marie’s voice echoes through his brain._

**_‘I don’t care how, or what you do… just get rid of it.’_ **

****

_Hoisting the baby from his shoulder, he grips the child underneath both armpits as his tiny feet dangle over the rushing water. It’s about a ten foot drop to the river, and the waves seem to be screaming._

_He hesitates as the baby looks up at him, quieting. His chest tightens as tiny, bright blue eyes meet his own. Small fingers reach out to grip his forearm, and he knows he’s defeated._

_‘Fuck… I can’t do this.’_

_Bringing the baby closer to him again, he releases a shaky sigh, the prospect of his potential actions leaving him feeling sick. He grips the baby a little tighter, turns heel, and walks away from the bridge._

_Opening the rusted door, he lays the baby down in the backseat of his old blue pick-up truck. The cries start up again, but he ignores them as he travels down the highway. Maybe it was five, ten, or even fifteen hours he drove that night. He couldn’t be sure. Far away enough, at least._

_St. Pete’s Catholic Church towers in the distance. It’s still the early hours of the morning, and the streets quiet. Pulling up on the curb, he parks quickly, jumping around to the side of his truck, pulling out the baby._

_In an old tattered fleece blanket, the man leaves the baby on the steps with a hand written note._

 

**_Hello, my name is Sam Sanchez._ **

**_Please take care of me.’_ **

* * *

 

To say it’s been a stressful evening would be the understatement of the century for Sam. He averts his eyes to the ground while he sits in the alien hospital. Creatures that resemble humans, slugs, and even other insects ignore him as they pass by. Sam releases a shaking breath, looking up. He grins as he looks across the way at the tall machine resting on the wall.

 

_Coffee. **Now** we’re talking._

 

Glancing from left to right, he stands and walks towards the machine. After about the third stride, something’s caught him by the wrist. Sam’s stomach lurches as he turns around to see Morty pulling him back.

 

“Uhh… I, um… wouldn’t go n-near that coffee machine if… if I were you.”

 

With a nod, Morty leads Sam back to the waiting area. St. Gloopy had been their only option without having too many questions asked. The critical care Rick needed had to be top notch, and thank goodness the address was still in the portal gun. They sit side by side in the plastic hospital chairs.

 

“Morty, how’s… how’s he doing?”

 

“H-He’s gonna be ok. The doctor said he should be waking up within the hour.”

 

Sam begins to fidget, suddenly looking a bit uncomfortable. He rubs the back of his neck as he stands. Morty watches in confusion as Sam shifts his weight, shoving his hands in his pockets.

 

“L-Listen, Morty, I… I need to head home.” Sam says, looking away.

 

“What?! Why?!” Morty stands suddenly, his voice much louder than he intended. Morty trips over his words as fear and panic begin seeping in.

 

“D-Don’t, don’t you believe me?! I-I-I mean, you-you saw the papers-“

 

“W-Whoa, take, take it easy, kid!” Sam exclaims, waving his arms. He places a hand lightly on Morty’s shoulder in a calming gesture.

 

“I… I believe you Morty, it’s just… do you really think this is… the right time for him to hear this news?”

 

Morty stops.

 

“Big news l-like finding out your son is still alive after thirty years could be pretty hard on a person.” Sam finishes, leaning away and running a hand through his hair.

 

“I-I-I think the best thing may be for you to, you know… l-let Rick heal a bit be-before telling him, you know? A-And to be honest…” Sam looks away from Morty, walking off slightly.

 

“I… n-need some time to process this too.”

 

Morty’s chest feels tight as his eyes begin to water. His hands tremble and he grips his hair, a sob shaking his body.

 

“N-No, p-please… he… he _n-needs_ y-you.” Morty cries, slumping in the chair.

 

Sam sits next to him quickly, wrapping one long arm around his shoulders.

 

“H-Hey! Take, take it easy, Morty! These things need time, a-and… you’ve done such a great job, I-I just… Need to take care of some…something th-things back at home, o-ok?”

 

He’s turns Morty around to face him in the chair, giving him a warm smile. He squeezes Morty’s shoulders as the kid looked up at him, wiping his face.

 

“Morty, I-I _promise_ you. I-I promise that I will come back wh-when the time is right, ok?”

 

“Y-You… y-you m-mean it?” Morty hiccups. The teen is jarred by the sudden embrace he’s pulled into, but after a tense second falls into Sam’s chest with another sob. To come all this way, find Sam alive, just to lose him again? Morty couldn’t live with himself if that happened. He’s crying harder now, the stress of everything hitting him at once. It’s his first time he’s been able to share Rick’s pain with anyone else, and the tornado of emotions rips through him.

 

“I-I promise, Morty.”

 

If Sam was disturbed by Morty’s increase in emotion, he didn’t let it show, which Morty appreciated. Sam patiently rubbed his back slightly with a couple shushes and warm words as the teen cried, even running a hand through his hair once. After a few minutes, Morty finally settles, sheepishly pulling himself away. He’s embarrassed by the wet mark on Sam’s t-shirt, but nothing is said about it.

 

“W-Well… l-let me send you back…” Morty reaches in his pocket for the portal gun, typing in the coordinates for the dive bar. Shooting it in front of the pair, the green portal swirls as Sam stands.

 

Taking the risk of freaking out an almost total stranger, Morty lurches forward again to grip Sam around the waist. Sam lets out a small huff in surprise, but returns the hug gently. Pulling him away, Sam winks at the teen.

 

“Do-Don’t sweat it, kiddo. You gave me y-your contact info… Y-You’ll see me soon.”

 

With a silent nod, Morty watches as Sam steps towards the portal. The tall man stops before walking through, looking over his shoulder.

 

“Oh, and Morty?”

 

“Y-Yeah?”

 

“Don’t… don’t ever call me ‘ _uncle Sam’_ … ok?” he laughs, stepping through the green mass.

 

 

 

 

 

Morty feels somewhat empty with Sam gone, and he sits heavily in the plastic hospital chair, feeling very much alone.

He doesn’t notice the slug-like nurse approach.

 

“Morty Smith?”

 

Jolting upwards, Morty anxiously replies, “Yeah, yes! Yes, th-that’s me.”

 

“Your grandfather is awake… you can see him now.”


	15. Chapter 15

* * *

  _These nights never seem to go to plan  
I don't want you to leave, will you hold my hand?_

* * *

 

 

_The whimpers are soul shattering, the cries of an innocent cuts him deep._

_“I-I w-want… I-I want m-m...mommaa…”_

_What can I do?_

 

_Why am I so weak?_

 

 

 

Sam stood hunched over the toilet in the dirty, dark bathroom. The yellow tiles are slick with piss, shit, and bile underneath his tattered black Converse. Hands gripping the top of the lid, the putrid smell helps him along as he forces an index finger to the back of his throat.

Bread is always the hardest thing to come up. You should try to stick with things that are easy on the throat and stomach---low acidity, easy textures. The impulse was unexpected, so the cheeseburger from earlier in the evening is entirely unforgiving.

He hadn’t planned to purge here after his set, but the anxiety is overwhelming. Sam knew it safest to keep his hobbies in the privacy of his own home, but seeing that man lying in the snow…

Another heave. His stomach clenches as he vomits, eyes and nose burning. The sweat begins pooling on his neck and down his spine, while his breathing becomes more labored. There’s only bile coming up now, the yellowish, foul smelling liquid over his tongue.

He spits, wiping his nose and mouth with the back of his hand. Walking slowly out of the stall, he stops in front of the dingy sink to rinse his hands. Only cold water, no hot. The piercing chill of the water on his hands slowing his boiling blood, calming him. Sam splashes some water on his face, trying to slow down his breath. With a hand on his cheek, he raises his eyes to the mirror.

 

The gaunt look behind his eyes is palpable, black rings circling under tired blue eyes. His color isn’t good, and he knows it. Sighing, he reaches for a paper towel, crestfallen to find none left. He does his best to shake off the access water, raking the rest on his face and through his feathery hair.

 

He walks back into the quiet bar where only a couple patrons remain. The stage is empty, his drumset gone. No doubt his bandmates were thoughtful enough to pack his set and head down the road. His thoughts are confirmed as he reaches into his pants to check his phone.

 

Four missed calls, two new text messages, all from Charlie.

 

 

**_Charlie (9:47pm)--- Hey, where are you? We packed up your set._ **

****

**_Charlie (10:30pm)--- Dude, heading to the hotel. Have your shit, hope you’re ok._ **

 

 

Sam shoots him a quick text apologizing, using some empty excuse. Stepping across the blistery parking lot, where his black Lexus patiently waiting for him. It springs to life as he presses the electronic lock, the lights bright in his eyes. He opens the door, sliding into the black leather driver’s seat heavily. Considering his options, he exhales with resolves as he shakes his head. He rubs his eyes once more before turning the key and speeding off towards the interstate, away from the bar and hotel.

 

It was going to be a long drive home.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

_December 5th, 1982_

 

 

_The picture is hazy, but some of it is starting to come back._

_The puzzle pieces of my nightmares falling into place._

_The sound of Marie’s screams, the lights, the smell of grass, the blood on the window sill._

_The police determined ‘foul play’ was involved, which was evident._

_The part that dazed me was that they suspected I was responsible. _

_I protested until I reached down, feeling my jacket._

_I was covered in a warm, sticky substance._

_It was several hours later before I realized it was blood._

_Sam’s blood._

_It was my fault._

_It was my fault. _

_They pulled his body up from the east river two nights later._

_The sheet looked so stark white covering the small figure._

_Marie identified him._

_I couldn’t look._

_It haunts me that I didn’t look._

_-R.S._

 

* * *

 

Rick feels himself rising back up from the murky waters of unconsciousness, apparent by the ever growing ticking sounds of the heart monitor next to his bed. Opening his eyes slowly, he blinks and scowls at the bright light around him. Bracing himself, he attempts to sit further up from the bed. Rick hisses through his teeth at the burning pain shooting through his limbs. Relaxing back, he begins scratching with irritation at the IV drip in his left arm. Before he can rip the plastic tube out of his flesh, a small hand rests on his own.

 

“Y-You shouldn’t do that…”

 

Rick tenses, and his eyes shoot up to meet Morty’s. They’re both guarded in their expressions, neither certain who would make the first move. Rick felt his throat constrict as the teen’s big brown eyes bore through him.

 

A plethora of emotions ran through Morty as he stared at his grandfather. It had been over a month since Rick’s disappearance, and several weeks since Morty had begun his journey. The boy felt anger, but also relief. After a few more tense moments, Morty lifts his hand away, his voice just above a whisper.

 

“Rick…why did you go?”

 

Rick crosses his arms, looking absolutely everywhere except at Morty. An unexpected wave of emotion burns through Rick’s chest. Releasing a heavy breath, Rick rolls his eyes as he stares the boy down.

 

“T-Typical, Morty… asking the _stupidest_ fucking questions. I thought it was pretty God damn obvious why I left.” Rick hisses, and before Morty can stop him, Rick has sprung up from the hospital bed away from Morty. Rick gasps as he feels his knees buckle under the sudden movement, but Morty is by his side swiftly, one hand around his waist to steady him. Morty scowls and sits Rick back on the bed.

 

“W-Well, I-I’m not the idiot who gets up too quickly out-out of a freaking hospital bed!”

 

Rick face palms, groaning loudly.

 

“Yes, Morty, a-a-and _why_ am I here, exactly? Last time I fucking checked, I-I didn’t ASK for you to drag me out of the snow, _did I_ , MORTY?!” Rick bellows, his cheeks flush with anger. But the outburst isn’t without consequence, and Rick’s breathing becomes a bit more labored as he sits back on the bed, shaking.

 

After the weeks Morty has been through, he’s unfazed by Rick’s outburst, standing in front of him in a firm stance. Rick’s blue eyes go wide with shock as Morty shoves his pointer finger into Rick’s chest, effectively silencing the old man.

 

“Y-Y-You know what, RICK?! There’s a lot that I n-never… th-that I didn’t ask for, you know? YOU as my GRANDFATHER, f-for example…” Morty’s breathing hard now, his blood scorching with emotion.

 

“…A-And you know what that means, R-Rick? I-It means that we’re family. _You’re my family_ , Rick a-a-and… my… my friend.” Morty feels foolish as the hot tears start to form at the corners of his eyes. Wiping his face with resolve, he continues his penetrating stare at Rick, and it’s enough to keep the man quiet.

 

“A-And when someone you care about… someone who… who means so much to you is in trouble, o-o-r is… is hurting, you have… t-to do something.” Morty whispers.

 

Morty rakes a hand through his curly locks before setting down next to Rick. Rick’s entire body begins screaming alarm bells when he feels the gentle pressure at his side. Nuzzling his head into the old man’s shoulder, Morty reaches out to grip his forearm.

 

“ _P-Please_ , Rick… c-come home.”

 

 

Perhaps unintentionally, Rick lets out a quiet snort.

 

 

_Home?_

The concept of the word is foreign to him.

 

 

_I have… a home?_

_Christ, when did that happen?_

 

Rick is still silent as he looks down at his flesh and blood.

 

 

_Rick and Morty… Rick and Morty…_

_Is this my home? Is he my… home?_

Screwing his eyes shut, Rick begins his protest as he tries to shake him off.

 

“L-Listen, Morty… I-I don’t…”

 

“NO, RICK!” Morty roars, his hold on Rick tightening as he tries halfheartedly to pull away again.

 

“I-I… WE are your home, R-Rick…”

 

For the first time in his life, Rick Sanchez is completely speechless as he stares at his grandson. As far as he knows, Rick has never given anyone such a strong emotional reaction before. Not an emotion other than anger, anyway. He’s been such a fucking screw up his entire life, why is this kid making such a big deal about this? About him?

 

_Fuck… does he actually… care about me?_

Rick is brought back to the present by the firm embrace of Morty. Small arms looped around his torso in a child-like gesture. Tiny muscle spasms rock the bed gently as the boy sobs into his blue shirt.

 

“I-I would _never_ … s-stop looking for you, R-Rick… _p-please_.”

 

Sighing, Rick lets his arm drape over the boy’s shoulders. He makes small, smoothing circles around his back as Morty cries. Rick recognizes that this isn’t a normal crying fit for the teen.

 

The kid is past done. All the stress, guilt, trauma, worry and sadness are now pouring out onto his clothes, the boy completely inconsolable. Several minutes pass and he remains still while Morty clings to him, his cries becoming incrementally slower.

 

They haven’t completely stopped, but Rick still stands, walking towards the door.

 

Sniffling, big brown, red-rimmed eyes look up fearfully as Rick leaves the bed. With one hand, he reaches up and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. He sees the old man rummaging for something in his jacket laid over the nearby chair.

 

“…R-Rick?” Morty whispers, dreading the worst.

 

When Rick turns around, the IV has been pulled out his arm, a small trickle of blood flowing down his fingertips. He pays the wound no mind as he slips into his white labcoat. Smoothing from top to bottom, Rick straightens the lapels before holding up the portal gun in his hand.

 

Morty’s heart stops, his body completely frozen as he waits for what may happen next.

 

With a slump of his shoulders, Rick sighs, looking at the teen with exhausted acceptance.

 

“Come, come on, M-Morty… let’s go home.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Six hours later, Sam pulls his Lexus into the familiar side street of his apartment.

 

He looks at his watch.

 

 **5:18 a.m**.

 

He sighs, shoving the door open with his leg. Thumbing through his keys, his finds the small silver one that opens his apartment. The fucking elevator has been under maintenance the past week, so he’s forced to climb the six flights of stairs to his destination.

 

He unlocks the door quietly before peeking in. Slipping through smoothly, the door closes with a soft click. Laying the keys on the nearby table, he walks through the kitchen to the living room, and a sense of relief fills him.

 

She’s there, sleeping peacefully on his couch. Brown hair flows across her face while she sleeps in the fetal position towards the television, her breath soft and relaxed. Sam smiles as he leans over the back of the large sofa, nudging her shoulder gently.

 

“H-Hey, Anna. Anna, w-wake up.”

 

With a muddled groan, she stirs, rubbing her eyes. Inhaling deeply, she looks around slowly before catching sight of him above her.

 

“Ohh… hey Sam. Glad you’re back.” She says in between yawns. As she stands to stretch, Sam can’t help but notice her sleepwear, or rather... lack thereof? He makes a mental note to have a discussion why it is NOT ok to sleep in panties and a tank top in his apartment. 

 

“Y-Yeah, I um… came back a-a bit early, I guess.” He says quietly, turning his eyes elsewhere.

 

Now a bit more coherent, Anna quickly reaches to the chair across the sofa to grab her hoodie and sweatpants. He can hear the embarrassment in her voice when she asks, “What time is it?”

 

“Almost 5:30. Did everything go ok?”

 

She reaches for her purse after her tennis shoes are on and she smiles shyly at him.

 

“Yes, everything went great. No problems at all.”

 

They begin migrating towards the door after Sam nods.

 

“Thanks again, Anna. I-I really appreciate your help.”

 

“No problem Sam. I’ll see you at the studio later today?”

 

“I’ll be in before 9 a.m.”

 

With a nod and a coy smile, she’s out of the door.

 

 

Walking back into the sitting room, Sam collapses onto his back as he tries to quell the aching muscles in his lower belly.

 

 

_Fuck. How long has it been since I even saw a girl in her panties?_

_No. Don’t even fucking go there._

 

With a groan, he throws his arm over his eyes as the morning sun creeps up through the large glass windows.

 

So much for getting any sleep.

 

Looking up at his ceiling, Sam finally feels the crushing weight of the news sinking into his lungs.

 

 

_Sanchez… Rick Sanchez… my father._

 


	16. Chapter 16

* * *

 

 _The only heaven I'll be sent to_  
_Is when I'm alone with you_

* * *

 

The campus is eerily quiet this time of year. The normal buzz of college students prancing about the courtyard is silent for rest of the semester. The chill in the air keeps scholars inside their dorms and apartments, leaving the cold brick to stand alone amongst the trees. Christmas break is almost here, and most students have already left to be with their families.

 

It’s 8:38 a.m., and Sam paces quietly towards the enormous, abstractly shaped building. There’s still some work to be done before the department wraps up for the term, paperwork and what not. It’s nothing exciting, but Sam is grateful for any sort of distraction.

 

Sam swipes the key card from his back pocket into the door. He tries to avoid looking at his own weary reflection as he waits for the large glass to grant him entrance. It produces a buzzing sound, not too unlike the sound of a prison lock, which cues Sam to pull it open.

 

His feet sound too loud in the echoing hallways. Sam passes empty room after empty room, pausing after a few paces. Turning around slowly, he swears he can hear the sound of a trumpet practicing down the hall, but it stops.

 

Probably just the imagination. Ears can play tricks too, you know.

 

Shaking his head, he rounds the corner and inwardly tenses as he sees the young brunette sitting cross-legged outside of his office door. She’s wearing earbuds and looking at her phone, and doesn’t notice him right away. Sam cocks his head as he takes the opportunity to drink her in.

 

If he was being completely honest, Anna was by far not the worst (or the greatest) intern he’s ever taken under his wing. Anna has good technique along with being very teachable. Her sense of patience has been her biggest gold star. It’s been useful to have someone to pass along the freshman majors when he just didn’t have the tolerance. She wasn’t terrible to look at either, making her overfriendliness all the more frustrating and confusing.

 

Eyelashes flutter as she finally sees him.

 

Looking up she says, “Oh, hey Sam! Sorry, I-I didn’t see you there…”

 

He mentally kicks himself for letting her call him by his first name. But what other choice did he have, after her help? She’s become far too familiar and comfortable for his liking.

 

She stands up slowly, brushing herself off.

 

“That’s ok, I-I only just got here…” he mumbles.

 

Stepping aside, he stands next to her to unlock the door quickly, pushing inside to the small, cluttered office. Anna follows him close behind as he switches on the light. The office is efficient in its contents; a modest desk, hundreds of books lining the walls, and a large silver drumset taking up about a third of the space in the corner.

 

She’s standing too close to him again, and he walks away to distance himself, sitting at the throne of the set.

 

A light flush blooms on her cheeks as he walks away. He notices her pushing some hair behind her ear as she moves to take off her jacket. Why is she fucking wearing a skirt this time of year? She has on tights on or whatever, but _come on_ … could this girl be a little more unassuming?

 

“So, um… what do you need help with today?” Anna asks in a low voice. Sam inwardly blanches when she actually hoists herself up to sit on his desk, crossing her legs. Sure there weren’t many seats in the room, but _fuck._

 

In a moment of weakness, he steals a quick glance upward, taking in her long legs across his desk. Sam distracts himself by shuffling some papers on the nearby music stand. He has to physically stop himself from rolling his eyes at her attempted flirtation. Couldn’t this girl take a fucking _hint?_ If something was going to happen between them, which it wasn’t, it sure as hell wouldn’t have taken this long. He really, _really_ wished she would just give up.

 

“Just a few paperwork things… I-I need you to tally the attendance for the freshman. Once that’s finished, you can average the attendance in w-with their grade.” Sam says quietly.

 

Standing, he gathers the papers next to her on the desk and hands them to her. She looks a little crestfallen as he points behind her.

 

“Y-You can actually sit in the _chair_ behind my desk, i-if you’d like.” He says in a chastising tone.

 

Anna huffs, staring at the papers in his extended hand. Instead of reaching out and taking them, she slowly grazes her fingers over Sam’s inner wrist, outlining his star-shaped tattoo under his sleeve.

 

Sam is frozen.

 

 

_She’s touching me._

_Why in the **fuck** is she touching me?_

 

“…a-are you sure there’s… nothing else I can help you with?” she breathes.

 

Sam’s throat catches as she looks up at him with large brown eyes. It’s all too familiar.

 

A bit too roughly, he grabs the wrist caressing his own. Shoving it above her head, she winces, looking up at him a bit fearfully.

 

“Anna… s-start on this paperwork. Get the _hell_ off my desk, a-and keep it in your f-fucking _pants_.” He growls, his grip tight around her wrist.

 

The shock on her face may have been entertaining in any other situation, but this girl crossed a significant line. She’s an _intern_ , for fucks sake. He released her suddenly as he moved away towards his bookshelf, his back to her. She’s humiliated, to say the least, but moves quickly around the desk to sit in the chair. When Sam turns around, he slams several large folders in front of her, avoiding eye contact.

 

“I-I… I’m sorry, Mr. Sanchez…”

 

Sam releases a tense breath at the mention of his surname. This is what he needs from her.

 

“I-It’s fine, Anna. Finish this paperwork and drop it off at the Registrar’s Office before you go.”

 

“Wait, are you… leaving now?” she exclaims, watching him gather his bag over his shoulder, heading for the door.

 

“Don’t you want to check over my work before grades are posted?”

 

She doesn’t make any attempt to hide the disappointment in her voice.

 

He stops in the doorway, looking over his shoulder.

 

“…I-I think you’re smart enough to average some fucking numbers. I-I need to go, lock up when you leave. Have a great holiday, or whatever…”

 

He waves his hand dismissively before crossing back into the hallway, and he doesn’t let himself look back at her hurt expression.

 

 

It’s better for both of them this way. She just doesn’t know it yet.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

In the weeks passed since Rick’s return, things in the family had almost returned to normal. It was a tearful reunion for Rick and Beth, from only Beth’s side of course. Content by the idea she would never see her father again, his return ripped her heart wide open again. The scars Rick had left for the family had been reopened, but this time, he would be there to help them heal.

 

Even if he still wasn’t ready to admit it out loud.

 

He couldn’t leave them again.

 

Adventures turned almost typical again between Rick and Morty as the days grew. Something unspoken remained between the pair, and Rick darkly came to the conclusion that the contents of the notebook must be the cause. He was a bit more callous than he intended on more than one occasion, but Morty’s loyalty never faltered.

 

Unknown to his grandfather, the notebook was the furthest thing from Morty’s mind when they were together. Only one thought plagued his mind, all day, and all night…

 

 

_Sam. Where are you?_

Morty must have played a million scenarios in his mind. What if Sam never comes forward? How will Rick react if he does? Will he be angry? Happy? Would he even believe him?

 

“…Morty, wh-what’s up with you?” a rough voice calls.

 

Morty jerks his head up, unaware that he had somehow drifted off while helping Rick in the garage.

 

“S-Sorry, Rick! I-I… must have dozed off, heh…”

 

Rick eyes him suspiciously.

 

“Whatever, kid. J-Just hand me that screwdriver.”

 

“S-Sure, Rick.”

 

The pair concentrate in silence. A gentle buzz has Morty jumping in his seat, only to realize it’s just his cell phone. Rick gives him an annoyed side glace as Morty reaches into his pocket, his eyes wide.

 

“Wh-What is it _now_ , Morty? Some, some girl finally text back she-she’s not interested?”

 

Rick is a bit perplexed when he doesn’t hear the teen retort. Looking over, Morty is totally frozen, still staring at his phone.

 

_It’s an out of state number… could it be him?_

“Uhh… s-sorry, R-Rick! I-I’ll be just a-a minute…” Morty stutters, running outside into the cold morning. A few paces from the house, he takes a deep breath before pressing the green button.

 

 

“…h-hello?” Morty’s heart is pounding.

 

 

“H-Hey, Morty… it’s Sam.”

 

 

Morty sits heavily on the sidewalk, the light snow melting onto his jeans.

 

“S-Sam! It’s… i-it’s so good to hear from you… I-I was afraid…” The relief in Morty’s voice in clear.

 

“Y-Yeah, I-I know, kid. I was calling to see if… i-if your family would mind some extra company… for Christmas next week.”

 

“A-Absolutely!! Th-They, w-we will be s-so… excited to meet you! A-A-And-”

 

“Easy there, M-Morty. We’ll plan t-to be there late evening on Christmas Eve, ok?”

 

“O-Ok Sam… y-you have the address?”

 

“Y-Yeah, I still have it… Morty, have you, uhh… t-told anyone yet?”

 

Morty shakes his head, only with the ridiculous realization that Sam can’t see him.

 

“N-No, I haven’t told anyone yet. I-I wanted to make sure that… th-that you…”

 

“I-I understand Morty. It’s probably best that way. I’ll see you in a few days.”

 

 

“O-Ok, Sam. Th-Thanks for calling.”

 

The other end is silent for a couple beats before he hears Sam’s voice again.

 

 

“…s-see you then.”

 

 

The line sings monotone as the connection dies.

 

 

Morty swallows the hard lump in his throat, his breath burning from the cold winter air.

 

_He’s coming here._

 

Morty looks from his blank phone back towards the garage, his heart pounding in his ears, his hands shaking.

 

_How do I tell him his son is still alive?_

* * *

 


	17. Chapter 17

 

  
_When the stars have all gone out_   


  
_You'll still be burning so bright_   


 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sam’s hand gripped the kitchen counter as he stared down at his phone.

 

_(Call Ended--- Morty Smith---Duration 1.45)_

 

Well, this was just fucking _great_. As if there wasn’t _enough_ to worry about? Was this the right call?

 

Sam trudged slowly to the coffee pot sitting on the white granite countertop. Automatically he reached above his head to open the cupboard, pulling out a light green mug. Sam pours his coffee, straight black, and walks toward the sliding glass doors opposite the kitchen. Opening them heavily, he shudders when the cool air strikes his skin. The temperature had dropped considerably for the area earlier in the week, a brisk 40 degrees.

 

It wasn’t unbearable, and it was what he needed- the cool air making his head a bit clearer.

 

Sam stood at the railing of the balcony, staring down into the streets below. There wasn’t much movement for early afternoon, and driving all night had Sam feeling like it was the break of morning. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a black lighter. Setting his coffee mug down on the nearby wood table, he lit the cigarette quickly. His shoulders visibly fell as he inhaled deeply. Cringing slightly on his exhale, he gave a look of disdain down at the cigarette. He knew this pack had been sitting in his car for a few weeks, and the staleness was just a bitter reminder of the could-be freshness of a new pack. Never the less, he finished it quickly, flicking it out into the street.

 

Picking up his mug, he sighed as he walked back into his home. The air had been refreshing, but his exhaustion felt even more overpowering than before. He glanced at the nearby clock while he slumped onto his couch.

 

_11:34 a.m._

 

He grumbled, adding the numbers in his head.

 

Yeah. There was time for a quick nap.

 

Sam stood up, set the mug into the sink and made his way to the bedroom. The dark grey sheets were still freshly made from a few days earlier. His head barely hits the pillow before he’s completely passed out, fully clothed and over the sheets.

 

 

 

* * *

 

In what almost feels like slow motion, Morty walks back towards the garage. Each step he took amplified his fear of the unknown, the soft crunching sound of snow taunting him below his feet. The teen had no idea what to say, or how to say it. Morty is not a person who uses his words well in any situation, and he can already feel the stutter behind his teeth and over his tongue as he pushes his way inside.

 

Turning around from his green chair, Rick intends to throw Morty an irritated glance. However, when he looks up to see Morty completely pale, eyes wide and rigid from head to toe, his expression turns to one of confusion.

 

“M-Morty? What the fuck is wrong with you?” Rick asks, turning to face Morty in his chair.

 

“R-Rick, I-I… I have t-to tell you something… I-I’m not r-really sure h-how t-to, um… h-how to-”

 

Morty jumps when he looks up to see Rick tossing the screwdriver on the table with a crash. Rick turns away from him in the chair, his back facing Morty. Rick thrums his fingers in boredom, one hand coming up to support his chin as he rests on the desk. He releases a deep, exasperated sigh that makes him feel like his bones may dissolve beneath him.

 

 

_This is it_ , Rick thinks. _The kid finally has the balls to ask me about it._

 

 

“J-Just, say what you want to fucking say, _M-Morty_.”

There’s a sense of bravado in Rick’s voice, but his nervous tone isn’t lost on Morty. Rick hears the boy take a deep, shaking breath before answering.

 

“I-It’s about… a-a-about y-your son S-Sam, R-Rick…H-He’s…” But Morty stops when he looks up the see Rick’s shoulders heaving up and down slightly in an erratic pattern. Fear grips his throat, icy and burning at the same time. Morty’s mind fills with panic as he stands frozen, staring at Rick’s back.

 

_I can’t do this._

_This is going to be too much for him, I shouldn’t have said anything._

_I can’t see him like this._

 

Morty takes a step forward, but stops in his tracks when he sees Rick lift his head, still shaking.

 

 

_He’s… smiling? He’s laughing? Why is he laughing?_

 

 

Rick swivels in his cackling, running two hands through his hair. He shakes his head a bit, closing his eyes.

 

“…J-Jesus Christ, Morty… if…if-if I’ve said it once, I-I’ve say it a million fucking times… I-I really can’t believe h-how much of a fucking idiot you take me for…”

 

Turning back around to the desk, Rick picks up his screwdriver to continue working on his current trinket.

 

Morty is momentarily speechless. Blinking rapidly, Morty slams a fist on the table, shouting now. Rick doesn’t flinch.

 

Morty knows he _has_ to get this out. _Now_.

 

“N-NO, Rick! Y-You don’t understand, S-Sam, h-he’s…”

 

Rick doesn’t look Morty in the eye, but rather keeps his hands and eyes moving on the machine in front of him.

 

“…C-Currently teaching music a-at the University of Wisconsin.” Rick whispers in a low, uninterested tone.

 

 

_Wait…. **What**?_

Morty’s jaw hangs in the air as his mind goes blank.

 

_Did he just say…_

 

Morty is completely baffled as he stares at his grandfather. Rick continues to casually work on the project in front of him, the silence overpowering the room. All of a sudden, a sense of rage bubbles up in Morty’s chest. For so many weeks he had been carrying around this secret that had threatened to drown him, and what was it all for?

Morty can only see white around his vision as he glares at Rick, his nonchalant attitude pushing Morty too far. The teen reaches across to grab the screwdriver out of Rick’s hand, slamming it on the work desk. His chest is heaving while his hand grips the screwdriver.

 

“Y-You… y-you m-mean… YOU MEAN Y-YOU _KNEW_?! Th-This ENTIRE TIME?!” Morty screams, his hands shaking. Slowly, Morty’s legs buckle and he slips down to the floor, the desk to his back. The tears begin before Morty can stop them. Full blown sobs rack his body as Rick looks down at him stone faced.

 

Rick says nothing, but reaches down to run a hand through Morty’s hair in a calming gesture. Through the sniffles, Morty manages to croak, “H-How…?”

 

Taking a deep breath, Rick looks down with an unknown emotion at the heap of shivering mess on the floor.

 

“Morty, w-when you… when you pulled me out of the snow, I… I-I saw someone else.”

 

Morty blinks, looking up with red eyes. Rick continues.

 

“…a-at first I thought maybe… maybe it was another Rick. Y-You know, from… another dimension or something. B-But I… just h-had a feeling it wasn’t. A-And then I found this in your room…”

 

Reaching into the desk drawer, Rick pulls out the documents Morty had commissioned from K. Michael weeks ago. He drops them heavily on the desk. Morty stands to looks at the papers. The teen glances from the papers to Rick, several times before speaking. Rick waits patiently with his arms crossed, his head slightly tilted.

 

“B-But… I-I don’t understand… w-why haven’t… w-why…”

 

“Why haven’t I tried to _see him_ , M-Morty? Is _that_ really your question?” Rick barks, his voice rising. Rolling his eyes, Rick stands from his chair and walks across the room to the shelves. Rummaging through some old dusty boxes, he hurls something at Morty’s head. The kid ducks just in time to look down at the torn notebook on the floor.

 

“Y-You, you _reaaally_ want to know why I haven’t bothered to see him, _M-Morty_? It’s all right _fucking_ there, i-in that book.” Rick shakes his head, sitting back down at his chair. He swivels towards Morty, his own hands on his chest. Rick’s eyes turn almost grey as Morty listens with a tightness in his throat.

“ _Look at me_ , Morty… Y-You know better th-than anyone what a fucked-up, worthless piece of shit I am. L-Look at how _fucked up_ your family’s life is because of me! M-My daughter got knocked up by some, some loser _fucking_ high school shit be-because I wasn’t around, _Morty_. I-I couldn’t make a marriage work, _or_ a family. What in the _fucking hell_ kind of good w-would it do for, for this kid to meet me? A psychotic, fucked up alcoholic father who doesn’t give a fuck about _anything_?”

 

Dropping his hands, Rick sighs, turning away. He rubs a hand through his hair, closing his eyes.

“Th-The kid… the kid obviously did a hell of a lot better…w-with…without me around.”

 

Rick jumps at the sudden physical contact of his grandson’s touch. Rick’s arms hang awkwardly in the air as Morty’s grip around his neck tightens. Tiny sobs run through the teen’s body as he struggles to speak through his tears.

 

“R-Rick… p-p-please, don’t, don’t think that. I-It’s, i-it’s not true…”

 

Rick sighs, wrapping his arms around his small grandson.

 

 

“M-Morty…”

 

 

“R-Rick…”

 

 

Neither is sure what to say. Minutes, maybe hours pass as Morty cries and Rick holds him.

 

 

Just Rick and Morty.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Soft guitar music plays somewhere in the distance. It gets louder and louder, pulling Sam into consciousness. With a groan, he turns to shut off his phone alarm. He sits up slowly, scrolling through his phone. He sees there’s a message from Anna.

 

 

**Anna H.-** ‘ _Mr. Sanchez, the averages are completed and submitted to the office. I apologize again for my unprofessional behavior. I hope you have a pleasant holiday.’_

 

The text is perfectly punctuated, and looks like some time was spent on the wording. Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair. Maybe he was too hard on her? It wasn’t that she was so terrible, it was just… too soon.

He notices the time on his phone.

 

_3:10 p.m._

 

Shit. Better get moving.

 

 

 

A few minutes later, his black car is parked underneath the large oak tree in the parking lot. He walks up the sidewalk towards the happy-looking red brick building. Sam can’t help but notice the complete and content families that stroll passed him with their loved ones tucked in winter coats. Sam walks a little bit faster until he reaches the back of the line of other adults holding up their card. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out the small laminated number that reads “113”.

Sam glances around some of the other adults towards the glass door. This feeling happens each time almost every day, and Sam feels his heart melt to his toes. He can’t help the smile that bubbles up inside of him when he sees the small patch of blue hair running towards him. It swishes somewhat from the air as tiny black and white converse race down the path. Sam kneels with open arms. A small voice yells in joy as Sam braces himself.

 

“ _Daddy_!”

 

Sam hugs the tiny boy tightly, and stands with him cradled around his neck and shoulders.

 

_This_ is Sam’s home, what he lives for. The only comfort he knows.

 

“Ohhhh, my boy! I missed you so much!” Sam kisses him on the cheek and shifts him onto his hip. They wave goodbye to the teachers on duty as they head towards their car. Sam glances around the parking lot protectively before setting him down by the door. He opens the back seat and hoists the child into the grey car seat after removing his bookbag. Sam adjusts the straps as he smiles at him.

 

“D-Did you have a good day at school, buddy?” A couple more pulls tighter, just to be sure.

 

The boy nods vigorously as he holds up a small hand, a yarn bracelet hanging with colorful beads. Sam’s eyes go wide in that way you do when talking to a child to make them believe in your unbelievable excitement.

 

“Did you _make_ that today?! It’s sooo beautiful!” Sam coos, poking it softly.

 

Rolling the bracelet off gently, small hands reach out to him.

 

“I-I m-made it f-for you, Daddy!” the small voice squeals.

 

“For _me?_ Th-Thank you so much!” Sam hangs the bracelet along with a few other trinkets on his rearview mirror. Sam turns on the car to start the heat, but turns around once more to look at his bright-eyed passenger.

 

“H-Hey, buddy… h-how… how w-would you like to go a-a-and meet some new family this Christmas?”

 

The small head tilts to the side for a moment and he looks up with big blue eyes, as if giving it deep consideration. After a second or two he looks back at Sam nodding quickly with a small smile.

 

“S-Sure, Daddy, I-I go any place with you!”

 

Sam grins, and takes a hand to shuffle it through his son’s hair.

 

“That’s my boy.”

* * *

 


	18. Chapter 18

* * *

 

 _In the morning I fled_  
_Left a note and it read_

  
_Someday you will be loved._

* * *

 

_The kitchen is bright and clean, an almost sterile atmosphere._

_I don’t want to touch anything. It makes her mad._

_The cookies on the counter smell so good... I only want one._

_Couldn’t I just take one?_

_My hand hurts. The voice is too loud._

_“Sam, **NO** , those aren’t for you. Those are special cookies I made just for the twins, remember? You’re just here until we find somewhere else to put you.”_

_Oh, that’s right._

_I’m just visiting._

_Why doesn’t anyone want me?_

 

 

“F-Fuck…”

 

Sam gasps loudly, sitting up from bed. He can feel the sweat dripping down his spine despite the chill in the air. It takes him a split second, but he calms after looking around, seeing his familiar surroundings.

 

A dream.

 

It was just a _dream_.

 

Sam falls back against his pillow, arms sprawled above his head. The memory has left him jittery and wide awake. He glances at the clock, his breathing beginning to slow.

 

_3:24 a.m._

 

Fuck.

 

Defeated, Sam swings his legs over the side of the bed, standing slowly. He tip-toes his way through the apartment to the large blue bedroom a few doors down from his own. The door squeaks only slightly as he pokes his head in. The small slumbering form looks peaceful, while the soft glow of the moon and stars nightlight dance lazily across the ceiling.

 _At least one of us is getting a good night’s sleep_ … Sam thinks.

He’s about to close the door when a few soft whimpers stop him in his tracks. Whipping around, he notices the small body begin to jerk slightly, and the cries becoming louder.

 

“…n-n…n-no, m…m-mommy…”

 

Fucking hell.

 

He hears the sniffles first before he rushes to the bedside. The small boy sits up, frantically looking around in tears, clutching at the sheets with tiny fists. His cries turn into screams as Sam pulls the small body into his chest.

“Shhh, hey, h-hey, buddy, it’s me. It’s dad, I’m here, buddy. I-I’m here.” Sam whispers, stroking the soft blue hair through his fingers. He feels the tiny fists ball up his shirt as the cries slow beneath him. Sam can’t help but think about how small and frail his child seems in his arms.

 

“…S-sorry, daddy, I-I… had a nightmare.”

 

Sam holds him tighter as he kisses the top of his head.

 

“I-I know, buddy, it’s ok. I had one too. Even grown-ups get them too sometimes.”

 

Red-rimmed blue eyes look up at his own.

 

“R-Really, daddy?”

 

“Yes, sweetheart. A-And, you know what else grown-ups like to do sometimes? Wh-When they have nightmares?”

 

A tiny frown forms while blue hair swishes from side to side.

 

Sam grins, leaning down as if to tell a secret.

 

“W-We like to… to eat ice cream late at night! Wh-What do you say?”

 

With an excited nod, Sam carries his son away from the nightmares, and into the kitchen for some mint chocolate chip.

 

 

 

 

 

A half-gallon of ice cream and a few episodes of Dora later, Sam carries a somewhat sticky six-year-old back to bed. It’s almost five in the morning and it’s still dark outside. Sam rummages through the short dresser in the blue room until he finds a clean t-shirt. Sitting up the small frame slightly, he tugs the shirt over the blue head and slips on the fresh one. Sam opens up the sheets, tucking him in softly. Kissing him on the forehead, Sam leaves the door cracked a little before heading to his office.

After some briefing on his newest students for next semester, Sam glances at the clock again.

 

 _5:45 a.m_.

 

Yeah, it was late enough. They’ll be up.

Picking up his cell phone, Sam presses the small red icon on his home screen.

He hears a voice after only two rings.

 

“Hello? Sam? Is everything all right?” the older woman exclaims.

 

“Y-Yeah, Peggy, everything is ok. W-Would you and Jim be able to take the little guy for the rest of the weekend? I-I have a lot of work to do, a-and-“

 

Sam holds his ear away from the phone as the squeal of excitement from the other end pierces through the receiver.

 

“—eeeppp!!! We’d LOVE to have our little man! Do you want to bring him over now?!”

 

“N-No, Peggy, in a few hours. W-We kinda had a rough night, but he’s sleeping now. When he wakes, we’ll be over.” Sam sighs.

 

“Okay, Sam. We’ll be waiting!”

 

“Th-Thanks, Peggy.”

 

 

 

 

A few hours later, Sam sits alone in his office raking through the scores for the spring curriculum recitals. The order is a gigantic task in itself, and he knows a few cuts are going to be needed, along with some instrumentation changes.

Dropped off a few hours earlier, the apartment seems quiet and empty without the bumble of energy on Saturday morning. But it’s been a hell of a fucking week, and a trip to the grandparents was exactly what Sam needed.

Sam is engrossed in a four mallet score by Bach when he hears a soft knock at the door. It makes him jump slightly, and he glances at the clock with mild irritation.

 

_2:36 p.m._

 

Who the fuck?

 

Sam pushes back his chair, taking one more sip of coffee before heading towards the door. He straightens his black t-shirt somewhat, dusting off any bagel crumbs that may have been left over from his halfhearted breakfast. Worn blue jeans and socks complete his casual attire as he trots towards the door. Bending down to look through the peep hole, Sam sucks a breath in when he sees familiar brown hair swish to one side.

 

_Anna._

 

_What the hell is she doing here?_

 

Sam doesn’t bother with inquires as he opens the door with one hand, pulling at the chain lock. Anna looks a bit flustered, as if she didn’t expect him to be home. What the hell else did she imagine?

 

“Oh, um, Mr. Sanchez, I-I was just going to… leave these at your door.” Anna holds up a few plastic bags filled with various sized colorful boxes with ribbons and bows. Sam blinks, puzzled.

 

“I saw a few things in the store and just couldn’t help myself! They made me think of your son, and I-I just thought that…” Anna trails off quietly, looking embarrassed.

 

Sam senses her discomfort, and his shoulders fall in defeat.

 

“Th-That’s… that’s real, really nice of you, Anna. Y-You didn’t need to do that.” Sam steps aside cordially as he gestures in the doorway.

 

“W-Would you like to come in?” he says politely, a deep part of him hoping she’d decline.

 

Her eyes turn bright as she nods respectfully. “Sure, I would love to.” She murmurs.

 

Walking into the apartment, she makes her way across the room to kneel beneath the Christmas tree set up in the corne. Sam watches her nervously, hands in his pockets as she unloads about six or seven gifts under the tree. Once she’s finished, Anna takes a moment to look up, admiring the colorful lights and decorations.

 

“It’s so beautiful, Mr. Sanchez! I love the detail…”

 

Anna caresses a small white porcelain dove that sits near the bottom of the tree, carefully stroking her fingers over the small, delicate wings.

 

“Anna… y-you know you can call me Sam.”

 

She turns around with wide eyes, standing up quickly. Her hands fiddle in front of her, unsure of what to say. The blush returns full force to her cheeks as Sam takes a few steps towards her.

 

“I-I appreciate that, Sam… and I-I’m… sorry again, for the other day. I was way out of line!” Anna attempts to laugh off the last part of her statement, but feels herself shrink under the tall gaze of Sam as he approaches her with dark eyes.

 

It’s a cloudy day, gloomy for midafternoon, and the twinkle of the Christmas lights reflect from Anna’s hair and into her eyes. Sam smiles, allowing himself to look at her. Really look at her.

 

“I-It’s ok, Anna. To be honest I was a bit… surprised at how forward you were. B-But I-I shouldn’t have been so hard on you. I-I’m sorry too.”

 

Sam’s mouth turns upward into a grin as Anna beams at him. It was clear from her reaction she wasn’t expecting to be so welcomed, let alone receive an apology on the opposite end. Brown eyes lock with blue for a second or two longer than necessary, and before Sam can guard himself, she leans up to hug him around the neck. His arms rest awkwardly in the air for a beat before he relaxes, resting his arms lightly around her waist. The warmth of her body pressed against his own has Sam’s heart running away in his ears.

It’s been too long. Waaaay too long since something felt like _… this._

Sure the occasional lay was needed here and there, but this was different. This _felt_ different. Something Sam hadn’t allowed himself to experience in several years.

 

Anna turns her head to speak into his ear.

 

“I know… I know the holidays must be tough… for the both of you. I just want you to know that…”

 

Anna leans out of the hug, her hands on Sam’s chest as he rests his own on her shoulders, waiting for her to finish.

 

“…that if the two of you need anything, I-I’m here for you. I mean, I have officially graduated after all!” Anna says with a wink, and it makes Sam smile.

 

The Christmas season has a magic of its own. Maybe Sam felt himself pulled under by that magic for just a moment, or maybe it was the smell of her sweet perfume that clouded his head momentarily. It could have been the sight of having a beautiful girl place presents under the tree for his son, or maybe that she’d cared enough at all to be here, now. Whatever the reason, he knew there was nothing he could do to keep himself from kissing her in that moment.

She tasted sweeter than he expected. A bright cherry from some sort of lip balm that set his skin on fire. A taste so simple, yet so vibrant against his mouth. Anna is frozen only for a moment before she kisses him back, and soon they’re a tangled mess of hands, hair, teeth, and breathe. Sam’s tongue ring clacks behind his own teeth as he groans, pressing her body tightly to his own. Arms snake around his neck and pull him tighter, deeper into her. And for the first time in a long time, Sam feels himself let go.

 

 

 

 

_(Four Days Later)_

 

 

“Morty, would you _please stop_. You’re gonna like, wear a path through the carpet.”

 

Summer throws a pillow in Morty’s direction from the couch in front of the sliding glass doors. Morty flinches when the pillow hits him in the back of the head, and he turns around with a scowl.

 

“P-Piss off, Summer. I-I can’t help that, I-I’m, gee, I dunno _nervous_?! Th-This is a big deal! Y-You should be nervous too!”

 

Summer sighs, tossing her legs up the side of the couch. Both kids have dressed a little nicer for the occasion- Summer in a pink sweater with khakis and Morty in the trademark yellow sweater with argyle shapes. It’s a little itchy, and Morty scratches the back of his sweating neck as he glares at his sister.

 

“Whatever, Morty. The guy probably won’t even show-if he’s anything like Grandpa Rick, anyway… I’m betting he’s a _total_ flake.” Summer replies with no eye contact, texting on her phone. Morty stomps across the room, tearing Summer’s phone away from her hand.

 

“Hey! Give it _back_ , you little shit!”

 

Morty holds the phone behind his back as Summer sits up. With the other hand he points to the kitchen in the other room.

 

“Th-This isn’t just about _Rick,_ Summer. I-It’s about mom, too! I-It’s about all of us… w-we’re all family. Sh-She’s meeting her brother for the first time! S-So, so quit being ‘cool’ about this or whatever.”

 

Rolling her eyes, Summer stands, snatching her phone back and plopping back on the couch.

 

“Whatever you say, Morty.”

 

Morty turns his back on Summer angrily to walk into the kitchen. The room is warm with fresh baking, and Morty can’t help but stare as his mother frantically moves her way around the kitchen. He eyes up the counter and sees about three dozen different kinds of cookies and three or four flavors of pie. Beth doesn’t even notice Morty walk in as she continues to furiously stir more batter.

 

“Uhh, umm… M-Mom? D-Do you, uh, n-need any help?”

 

Beth jumps slightly, turning around with a huge smile that Morty fears is a bit disingenuous.

 

“No, sweetie! Thanks for asking. Just another dozen or so and I’ll be finished here!”

 

She turns back towards the bowl and continues the brutal stirring pace. Morty’s insides scrunch up when he sees her hands shaking. This news has been the toughest so far on his mom, and Morty can see her right on the edge of losing it. Jerry was still a few hours away from home, returning from a visit with his own parents, leaving Morty to tend to his mother alone. He clears his throat.

 

“M-Mom, i-is Rick in the garage?”

 

Beth stops, turning around again. She steps to the sink to wash her hands.

 

“I think so, sweetie. But I don’t think he… wants to be bothered right now, ok?”

 

Before Morty can reply, the high pitched musical tune of the doorbell has the teen’s stomach dropping to his toes. He feels Beth go stiff next to him, and both of them freeze momentarily. They hear an annoyed groan coming from the living room.

 

“Oh my God, _fine_. I’ll get it…”

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -  
> I am a house built out of twigs and stones.
> 
> I am a house, but I'm not a home.
> 
> But I’ve got love to give and, give and, give and give.  
> -  
> -

* * *

 

The little yellow house looks so happy from the outside dusted with snow. Picturesque with a mother, father, grandfather and two children- a boy and a girl. Even the mailbox on the outside that reads “The Smiths” couldn’t be more perfectly normal.

Sam clutches the black leather steering wheel tighter, but it’s nothing compared to the tightness in his chest. A small voice from the back brings him back to the present.

 

“…Daddy? A-Are we there?”

 

Sam looks up to the review mirror to give the small passenger a toothy grin and a wink.

 

“Y-Yeah, buddy. We’re here.”

 

Sam tries his best to keep his voice from giving away his anxiety. He’s practically bursting inside, but he knows he needs to keep his cool. Sam learned a long time ago that when you’re a single dad, your own emotions and needs have to come second after your children. No good could come about from sharing fears with an already apprehensive six-year-old. He takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly and silently before opening the driver’s door. Sam steps to the back seat to open the rear door, and almost by muscle memory, begins undoing the childlock seatbelt. But nerves are getting to him, and Sam finds it difficult to pull at the straps.

 

“A-Are you ok, dad? Y-Your hands shake…”

 

Tiny hands cover his own and he stops. Looking into the big blue eyes beneath him wide with worry, Sam tilts his head with a smile.

 

“I-I’m great, buddy! Just a little cold, th-that’s all…”

 

Satisfied with his answer, feathery blue hair swishes into a nod, though Sam isn’t sure he’s entirely convinced. Sam helps him onto the sidewalk across from the house. He takes the small yellow gloved hand in his own, leaning down slightly.

 

“N-Now… wh-what do we need to do be, before we cross the street?”

 

“L-Look bof w-ways!” the small voice shouts.

 

“That’s my boy.” Sam replies with a hair tussle.

 

Across the street and up the walkway, Sam stands face to face with the door. He doesn’t notice the flash of green that comes from the garage… but someone else does. He lets the tiny hand go just for a moment to raise fist to the door. After knocking twice, Sam also doesn’t realize he’s standing alone on the welcome mat.

 

 

 

“J-Jesus, f-fucking _Christ_ … Goddamn…”

Rick stumbles through the portal into the garage, tripping over some piled up laundry on the floor. He curses the mess, side stepping it to sit at his workbench. With his elbows on the table, Rick reaches under the table for the cool metal flask waiting for him. Rick feels the weight of his arms as he lifts the metallic flask to his mouth.

 

He’s _so_ tired.

 

Over the past week, Rick hasn’t stopped boozing. Not to sleep, eat, or work at home. The conversation with Morty left Rick feeling completely helpless and out of control, and not the _good kind_ of out of control. Rick flinches at the memory of Morty’s stern, but stuttering voice.

 

 

_“R-Rick, he’s… h-he’s coming here f-for Christmas. T-To meet… us.”_

Rick snarls, sweeping some papers off of the desk.

Who gave you the fucking _right_ , Morty? For this dumb ass, _fucking_ teenager to be the one to decide that this… _reunion_ needed to happen? What _fucking_ good would any of this do?

Putting down the flask, Rick runs his hands through his hair, his mind in overdrive. He groans as his forehead hits the wood, his back arching.

 

 _This_ is what he has been avoiding.

_Thinking._

 

Ok… So _what_? Maybe his life wouldn’t have turned to such shit if Sam hadn’t disappeared? Maybe there wouldn’t be a Beth? Or a Morty? Or a Summer? If he had put a stop to Marie, could they have been… a family? Happy? It all begs one question for Rick…

 

Why _now?_

 

When so much has already been taken?

 

So much time lost.

 

Rick learned a long time ago how to live with the pain of losing Sam. Most of the time he carried it around in his back pocket or slid it down his throat. What would life be like if that pain had never been around? Maybe if Rick just had his own shitty childhood to deal with instead of losing his first kid, maybe…

He contemplated not showing up today. He already held the award for worst father of the universe after Sam was taken, let alone factor in the lack of involvement in Beth’s life. Would it even matter if he wasn’t there?

 

Beth…

 

Rick had always been so afraid he would mess up her life like he had his own… _and_ Sam’s. There had always been a part of him that wanted to take Beth away with him to the stars...

To let her see the universe in all its terrifying beauty.

But he couldn’t lose her, too. And he wasn’t to be trusted to make moral decisions.

Distance was best. But then, why was he back here with the Smiths _now?_

 

 

Rick is thrusted from his thoughts when he hears a dusty tin can fall from the shelf behind him. Opening his eyes, he glares at the wall in front of him, growling with a raspy voice.

 

“CH-Christ, _M-Morty_ … b-be a little bit more, I-I dunno, _obvious_ sometime when you-”

 

But Rick doesn’t finish as he turns around.

 

He’s confused as his eyes scan the room for the familiar yellow figure, but stops near the outside door.

He doesn’t find the big brown gaze, but rather a different pair of eyes.

 

Eyes as blue as the sky.

Eyes as blue as his own.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The redhead opens the door with a beaming look. Sam is a little taken aback by her enthusiasm, but resists taking a step backwards.

 

“Whooaooohhh! Holy cow! You look _just_ like grandpa Rick! Except, like… _better,_ or something.”

 

Summer says with humor light in her voice, one hand on her hip. She seems to be eyeing him up and down, and it makes Sam a bit uncomfortable. He shifts awkwardly.

 

“Uhhm… ummm… y-yeah, it’s Sam.” He replies, stretching out a black gloved hand with cut out fingertips.

 

Summer looks at the hand a bit surprised by the formality, but takes it as a response.

 

“I’m Summer. It’s so great to meet you! Come on in!”

 

Summer steps behind him, practically pushing him through the doorway. Sam skids his heels, pushing against her from the wooden frame.

 

“N-No, I-I’m not alone, m-my son-“

 

Summer stops, looking puzzled. Stepping outside, she glances around, shrugging her shoulders.

 

“Umm, I… don’t see anyone out here?”

 

Sam feels his throat catch in fear. His heart skips a couple beats by the time he shoves her out of the way, looking up and down the street with panic. All the worst possible scenarios flood his mind in a single second as he scans the blank, white paths frantically. A bright yellow glove catches his eye near the side of the house, just outside of the garage door.

 

_The garage._

 

 

“S-Summer?! Wh-What’s going on?!” Morty asks, running from the house to the yard. Beth is close behind him. Summer seems a bit shocked as she stares at Sam’s path.

“I… dunno, he… said he didn’t come alone, and there was no one, so he like… freaked out? He ran into the garage.” Summer shrugged. All three of the Smith family members share a moment of understanding as they stood in the snow huddled together, watching the garage.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rick has seen a million shades of breath-taking beauty in the universe. Colors not comprehendible to the human eye, sounds and melodies across leagues of distance that could physically break a human heart from passion. Simply being held in the presence of something so stunning, that you felt you may have turned to stone under its command. But even the greatest splendor of the cosmos paled in comparison to the magnificence of the small boy in front of him.

In parallel, something that festered, deep and terrible, wretched itself through Rick’s insides. A sphere so polluted and terrifying, that Rick felt himself tangibly heave. Any prior control of his breathing was completely forgotten as Rick sways heavily in the chair. He blinks, several times, as the small figure stands, revealing itself.

 

It walks closer.

 

_It’s staring at me._

_It’s like… it knows me._

_Sam…_

 

The small hand reaches out to touch his own, never looking away. The moment is disrupted by the loud crashing noise that comes from the outside garage door as it flies open.

 

“ _R-Ricky_! Wh-Where are you?!”

 

Sam spots him in an instant, and he concludes the situation to be a tall stranger looming over his son in a chair. Instinct kicks in as Sam crosses the room in one swift move, grabbing the boy from behind under the arms. Quickly lifting him protectively to his chest, Sam steps back to get a better look at the boy.

 

“R-Ricky? A-Are you ok?” He’s surprised to look up to see the young face scrunched into a frown, and he wriggles loose to stand at Sam’s side.

 

“ _N-No_ , daddy, it’s ok! He’s _ok_!”

 

Sam feels the wind knocked out of him as he looks up, staring at the older man in front of him. Sam had thought of a thousand different emotions that may run through him after seeing this man. This man… his _father_. However, _this_ particular emotion was not one Sam was ready for.

 

He began to grin.

 

And the older man smirked back.

 

Soon, it was completely hilarious. The recognition of the carbon copy standing in his garage has Rick on his feet pacing in disbelief, looking Sam up and down while he exclaims.

 

“H-Holy shit, kid! Y-You look just like me! Well… a _young_ me, anyway. You’re _welcome_ , hahaaa!” Rick cackles, fist pumping in the air. Sam is still cracking up while the six-year-old stands immobile, totally clueless as to what in the hell is so funny.

 

“A-Are you kidding me?! W-Will I get that freaking _bald_?!” Sam retorts holding his stomach in laughter. He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head, extending a hand afterwards.

 

“I-I think uhh… introductions a-are in order. I-It’s Sam. Sam Sanchez.”

 

Rick raises an eyebrow in incredulity, extending his hand with a grin.

 

“Rick Sanchez…”

 

Sam takes his calloused hand, shaking it firmly for a moment. He’s broken from his laughter by a tug on his pants leg.

 

“Ohh, y-yeah… sorry bud, this is uhh… Ricky, my son. A-And… your grandson, too, I-I guess.”

 

Ricky looks up and gives Rick a grin that’s almost a sneer with a few missing teeth, and it’s overwhelmingly adorable. It makes Rick laugh out loud, and he reaches down to scuffle his hair, just like Sam would.

 

“C-Cute kid.”

 

Before Sam can respond, Rick looks over his shoulder to the rest of the family anxiously standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Rolling his eyes, Rick tiredly gestures towards them.

 

“A-And this, this conspicuous _load_ is the rest of the family.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The rest of the evening passed with light conversation, some teasing, and a great lasagna made by Beth. Even Jerry, so far, had managed to not ruin the evening. He seemed to sense how important this was to Rick and Beth, and wisely stayed quiet, save a few mannerisms. Summer and Morty ate with Ricky around the living room table since the boy was a little too short to reach the kitchen table. Sam felt a bit anxious during the meal with Ricky out of his line of sight, but was relieved to hear him giggling in the other room.

 

It was almost ten thirty, and Sam cradled the passed out kindergartener to his chest.

 

“Beth, I-I’m gonna go put him to bed real quick. I-It may take a minute or so.”

 

It had been an exciting evening, but the family decided to retreat to their respective locations for the night. After all, Sam was staying several days, and they wanted to give him some breathing room.

The hardwood floor creaks under Sam’s feet as he gently pushes open the door to the Smith’s den. The couch had been pulled out and prepared into a bed previously by Beth. She apologized up and down for not having a space for both of them, but Sam assured her they’d probably have ended up sleeping together anyway.

 

Sam laid him down as gently as he could on the couch, but the whine was inevitable- he _always_ woke back up.

 

“D-Daddy? I tired...” the small voice grumbles.

 

“I know, baby, I-I know. Get some sleep.”

Sam tucks the edges around the little body close, kissing him on the forehead. He’s surprised when the initial pushback of Sam staying doesn’t come, but rather softs snores begin almost immediately.

 

Walking back into the living room, Sam is relieved to find it a bit darker and much quieter. Never in his life has Sam been a part of such a large family unit, and the commotion had made him a bit anxious. He doesn’t see or hear any signs of life in confirmation that the Smith family had gone to sleep. He looks left, seeing his black leather jacket on the coat rack. Sam’s shoulders fall with a sigh, and he grabs the jacket, walking out the door.

 

 

 

Christ, he _really_ needed to buy some new cigarettes sometime…

 

Sam stands in the snow covered yard of the Smith’s, blowing out smoke into the chilly winter night.

 

“Got another?”

 

Sam turns to his right to see Rick, hands in the pocket of his labcoat beside him. Rick is only slightly taller than Sam, and he shrugs as he hands one to the elder, not looking at him.

 

“Suite yourself. Th-These things are shit.”

 

Rick shrugs in return, taking the offer. He sparks it with a lighter of his own, a look of disgust on his face follows as he spits.

 

“H-Holy shit… y-you weren’t kidding. Why the hell don’t you buy new cigarettes?”

 

Sam exhales into the air, looking up at the stars.

 

“I-I’m trying to quit… Ricky doesn’t know.”

 

“Ahh.”

 

“Y-Yeah.”

 

Cold, dark stars. Puff, blow, as the world goes around.

 

“So.”

 

“So.”

 

“S-So… Ricky, huh? Did… d-did I have any influence on that?”

 

Sam exhales, grinning.

 

“Maybe…”

 

Satisfied with the answer, Rick looks back towards the sky again.

 

“S-So, where’s the kid’s mom?” Rick takes another drag.

 

Exhale.

 

“Car accident. A-About three and a half years ago.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

“Y-Yeah.”

 

Sam tosses the butt to the ground, grinding it with his shoe. He takes out another. Sparks.

 

“R-Ricky was in the car.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Y-Yeah. Fucking… almost lost him, too.”

 

“…”

 

“Makes me… makes me wonder, you know? Wh-Where I’d be if… if he hadn’t made it...”

 

Rick turns to his left, staring at Sam as he gazes into the black sky. And for the countless time that night, Rick felt his heart flutter.

 

“Y-Yeah… I know exactly what you mean.”

 

 

 

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                                                                …..   ((((((Twigs and Stones- by Siskiyou)))))))

 

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As it happens, the time passed.

 

Because even though this life altering, forever changing event had occurred, one thing still remained fact.

 

School was starting back in a couple days. Life calls.

 

The tiny arms wrap about Morty’s middle. Turning his head, Morty puts his cheek on the top of the small blue hair, pulling him in for a hug.

 

“H-have fun at school, R-Ricky! We’ll see you again real, real soon!”

 

Ricky nods with a grin before being swept up by Beth and Summer.

 

“Ohhh we’re going to miss this cutie!” Beth cools, kissing Ricky’s cheek as he squirms in her grasp giggling.

 

Sam smiles at the sight of his sister holding his son. It was pleasing throughout the visit to finally meet and understand the people who share his blood. Sam had led his entire life in dark in regards to his characteristics and tendencies as a person. Turns out his little sister is allergic to penicillin, just like him. She’s a very beautiful person, and the dark hole in Sam’s heart feels a little less heavy as he watches her.

Sam turns toward Rick with a grin. The old man is fidgeting somewhat with his hands, reaching one arm to scratch the back of his head. It was good to see that Rick was having an equally hard time coming up with protocol for saying goodbye again to someone you thought was gone forever.

 

But now, there was time.

There would be time.

 

 

Sam outstretches his hand.

 

“Rick. D-Don’t be a stranger.”

 

Rick huffs a low laugh, grabbing his hand.

 

“Hah, trust me, kid. N-No one is stranger than me.”

 

Sam nods in response, giving his hand a slight squeeze, letting go. He looks down at the blue eyes staring up at him.

 

“Ok, buddy. Time to go.”

 

Ricky nods. Without a pause, he walks to cling his arms to Rick’s legs. With long, spidery arms, Rick heaves him to his hip, looking him in the eye.

 

“Be, be good for your dad, kiddo. Y-You’ve got a great one.”

 

Rick is rewarded with another toothy grin as he embraces the old man around the neck.

 

It’s been so long since Rick has felt the weight of a child in his arms like this.

It makes his throat burn with an unfamiliar emotion.

Rick heaves him down after a second or so, placing him beside Sam.

“Take care, Smiths! W-We’ll talk soon.” Sam says. The wave as they walk towards their car.

 

 

Soon, their car disappeared down the snowy street.

 

Most of the family had retreated back inside out of the cold, save one pair.

 

 

Rick and Morty.

 

 

They both continued to stare down the road in silence, the afternoon sun glistening the melting snow on the blacktop. Rick places a hand on Morty’s shoulder.

 

“M-M… M-Morty, I-I….”

 

“I-I know, Rick.”

 

“Mmm.”

 

“S-So, guess it’s not just the two of us anymore, huh Rick?”

 

Rick’s hand tightens on Morty slightly.

 

“Yeah… b-but, there’s always gonna be Rick and Morty.”

 

“R-Really Rick?”

 

“Y-You know it, dawg! So, how… how about some ball fondlers… you in?!”

 

 

 

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                                                                                                                                The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe these story is 95 pages long.
> 
> I’m so emotional that this story is complete. Thank you so much for reading. If you’ve gone through this journey with me since the beginning, please know how much your comments and kudos have meant to me throughout these months. 
> 
> And to anyone who took the time to read this… all 33,000 words?
> 
> I honestly can’t tell you how flattered I am that I kept your attention for so long. I’m so touched that this story has spoken to other people.
> 
> Remember friends, people are who they are for a reason.
> 
>  
> 
> …Also, I know ‘Ricky’ was a little cheesy, but… I couldn’t help it :)
> 
> Continue for a short epilogue!


	20. Epilogue

 

* * *

 

_Epilogue_

 

The crowd is completely insane tonight. Wisconsin makes it to the Sweet Sixteen and the city of Madison is bursting with energy. The gig could mean some extra money. Like, some _serious_ extra money.

So of course, Goddam Charlie would think it’s a good idea to eat the last bits of the old hotdogs he found in the back of the refrigerator. A total, fucking wreck. The guy could barely speak in-between hurling his guts out over the phone.

 

“ _Fuck_ , Sam. What are we gonna do?” asks Mike, the guitarist.

 

Sam sits on the throne of the silver set tapping through his phone.

 

“I-I think I’ve got somebody.”

 

“Well that _somebody_ better be able to get here real fucking fast, Sam. Or else I’m out! We were supposed to start playing _ten minutes ago_!” shouts Leo, the keyboardist.

 

Just as they’re all waiting for Sam to answer, they’re blinded by a flashing green light in the middle of the room. The lead singer Tony screams as the tall lanky man comes forward from the portal.

 

“G-Geeze, bro. I-I’m not _that_ fucking scary.”

 

The bandmates stare open mouthed at the bizarre man in the white labcoat who has arrived by portal. Sam stands up slightly, gesturing with his sticks.

 

“Guys! I-It’s our back up! Calm the _fuck_ down already…”

 

Rick grins as he gives Sam a once over, pulling a nip from his flask from inside his coat.

 

“S-So, you just like the ‘wife beater’ look, eh?”

 

Sam shrugs. “I can move better. S-So, you mentioned… you played bass? A-At some point?”

 

“Yeah. Wh-What are we playing?” Rick asks. He walks towards the wall, grabbing the white and black bass leaning against the wall. He plugs it in as Sam does a once over on his set.

 

“E-Easy stuff. Ever hear of the Warhols?”

 

“Nope. B-But, it’s fine.”

 

“It’s fine?”

 

“Yeah. I’m a genius, remember?”

 

“Hah, okay… follow my lead.”

 

The sound swirls around them as the guitar and keyboard sneak like buzzing electricity through the air. Most patrons don’t even know the song has begun, and won’t realize until it’s too deep. Sam shifts the drumset with a clack as the sounds develop more cohesively. The eerie cry is unsettling as time passes. Finally, the guitar speaks out, and Sam feels the ghost of the beat in his chest. He thrums the steady pattern, looking up to Rick as the music builds. With a grin, and the throw of the high hat, Sam signals Rick into the song.

Rick sticks the landing perfectly, creating the perfect balance and connection of rhythm and bass. The chorus soars as Sam sings backup. He feels his skin light up as the harmonies flow through his brain, leading into a pause before leading back in time and time again.

 

The bass is ever present, stable, and ever sound.

 

 

 

 

((((The Dandy Warhols - Be-In)))))

 

**Author's Note:**

> Your feedback has been overwhelming.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


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